The Hour of the Wolf
by Adamantwrites
Summary: Young Adam accompanies Ben to New Orleans regarding Little Joe's inheritance after Marie's death. But Adam soon realizes more about her death than he ever wanted to know. All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended. OC's and plots are the property of the author.
1. Chapter 1

The Hour of the Wolf = "The hour between night and dawn. The hour when most people die, when sleep is deepest, when nightmares are most real. It is the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their deepest fears, when ghosts and demons are most powerful, the hour of the wolf is also the hour when most children are born." -From Ingmar Bergman's Film HOUR OF THE WOLF

I also heard the term, "The hour of the wolf," used in, of all things, an episode of _Murder, She Wrote._

The narration switches on occasion from semi-omniscient narrator to 1st person POV. Some pieces of information are necessary to convey and they wouldn't be known by Adam who narrates parts of the story _._

 **The Hour of the Wolf**

 **Chapter 1**

 _The dark-haired, swarthy boy sat up, his heart thumping, his body covered with a sheen of sweat. Actually, he was on the cusp of manhood and of being driven by all the desires and impulses that have driven men for centuries. His shoulders were broadening and he was as heavily muscled as older men from ranch work; he could throw a calf or ride a wild mustang as well as a full man. His father, Ben Cartwright, believed that everyone who lived on a ranch should contribute to its upkeep so Adam, after supper before his evening studies, cleaned the barn, mucked the stalls and fed the horses and both milk cows which he had to herd inside to keep them safe from wolves and bears. Other ranches hired barn boys, young men who were basically apprenticing to be ranch hands, but Adam had heard his father say to the owner of the feed store, that he didn't need a barn boy—he had Adam and once Adam left for school, he'd have Hoss and then young Joseph._

I should have stood up to my father when he said I'd have to postpone college at least a year, maybe longer. I should have protested and shouted that I didn't need to travel to New Orleans with him—after all, he was a grown man and once before, when I was about 10, he'd taken me with him while Hoss remained back on the Ponderosa with Hop Sing. I'd wanted to go that time, thinking it'd be a new adventure, something like all those towns we'd traveled through on our way west. But it wasn't. I'd spent most of those two weeks in our hotel room, a shabby, hot hotel room being bitten by insects, while he sold furs he'd trapped on our land to buyers from England. During that trip, my father also met and courted Miss Linda Lawrence who I didn't take to and she didn't take to me either. But it ended up not mattering because in a few months' time, she threw my father over for a count from England-something he later revealed to me. She wrote him a letter informing him she wouldn't be arriving in Nevada after all.

I should've insisted on starting college, thrown my father's promise in his face. For a few years now he had said that with my ability, I could go back east to college but there were certain conditions; my father made nothing easy for me. He said that as long as I didn't leave school after 8th grade as most boys did, but stayed until I was at least 17, and if I still managed to do my share on the ranch, then I must be serious about an education and he would willingly pay the tuition. He often brought up the "small fortune" it would require to educate me but always smiled when he said it. But I didn't have the courage to face him down on the matter of going to New Orleans again because there was something else playing into it.

Adding to it was my father's grief over the death of Marie, his third wife, the woman he finally married instead of Linda Lawrence, and Little Joe's mother. After Marie died, he seemed to depend on me more and more, far more than he had before her death. My father didn't seem to have the energy to run the ranch or even to pay attention to the minutest of matters. I made Hoss and Joe wash their teeth before bed, even having to check Hoss' neck to make sure it was clean for school. I drove them into what served as a town nearby, for haircuts. It wasn't a town really just a small establishment of a few merchants who sold mining supplies and dry goods, an assayer's office, an undertaker who also served as a doctor of sorts, and a barber cum dentist, along with two saloons and three brothels. Houses were beginning to rise on the outskirts of this little ersatz city, and every day, new buildings of every type were going up. I would visit town and sell orders and then check with our small mill that we had recently opened, to make sure they were fulfilling the orders for cut and planed boards and delivering them to the construction sites. I was burdened and wanted more than anything to go away to school where I could use my head more than my back.

I also worked alongside our foreman, Will Regan who managed the herds; the Ponderosa was branching off in more areas than I could handle alone. And now, with his beloved wife dead, my father sat staring into the fire and none of us existed except Joe who would crawl into his lap, clinging to the only parent he had left. I grew to resent my father's lack of industry, of his even caring about whether the Ponderosa burned down about his ears because he'd expect me to haul the buckets to put out the flames.

I knew that paying for college back east would put financial stress on not just my father but all of us. I wanted so much to get away, to get out from under my father's thumb and the burdens that were now suffocating me. I would wake up at night, the ranch problems springing on me like a panther in the dark and the lie awake until breakfast, going over solutions to the latest problem, worrying about bills, how to pay the ranch hands and what would be the next plague to hit the cattle. _The Farmer's Almanac_ became my Bible and I studied it daily.

I was certain that with my knowledge of the ins and outs of running a ranch, I could get a job on another ranch and not necessarily one in Nevada, but in Arizona territory or Utah depending on whether I preferred, as Will Reagan put it when I asked which climate was better for ranch work, herding and all, "It all depends on whether you'd rather freeze your balls off in five feet of snow or fry your ass on a hot saddle." I considered going off and working for someone else, especially with the secret I hid that fought to get out.

One morning, a few months after Marie died, the postmaster who was also owned the mercantile, had a letter hand-delivered to my father by his boy; the envelope was marked important. My father read it at the breakfast table, closing it up once and then opening it and reading it again while I kept Joe from building a house out of all the toast slices, something our father needed to be doing. But he finally folded the letter, slipped it into his vest's inside pocket and left the table. He said nothing more about the letter until that evening.

Hop Sing had struggled with Joe to take a bath and Hoss had stood by and laughed as Joe had his hair soaped and rinsed. Joe cried, claiming the soap stung his eyes and ran into his mouth, tasting awful. I heard the whole thing and so I knew my father did as well but he stayed in his chair, drawing on his pipe, gazing at nothing.

Finally, after Hop Sing had turned a fussy Joe over to me to put to bed and while Hoss sat in the kitchen eating a snack of cookies and milk, I dropped in the chair opposite my father. Joe had been exhausting, crying loudly about, well, just about everything. Finally, I told Joe he needed to go to sleep and I didn't want to hear any more from him. I was tired and I'd had it.. But he wanted "Pa." I said he'd be up in a while even though I wasn't sure he would be but Joe'd be asleep soon anyway.

I dropped into the chair opposite my father. I needed to read. I'd already received my letter from the college dean welcoming me; they were "pleased" to have me "matriculate at their institution" and looked forward to meeting me. But after dealing with Hoss and Joe and all the other ranch maters, I was too weary to study.

Then my father spoke. "Adam, I'll need your help." My heart fell; I knew it wasn't going to be good. He handed me the letter that'd come during breakfast and I read it twice as well. It wasn't particularly long or even convoluted, but it was surprising. Joseph was to inherit a house in New Orleans now that Marie, his mother, was dead. The house had been owned by an aunt of Marie's who died.

"You…well," My father seemed a bit embarrassed to admit such a thing to me but he went ahead anyway. "Adam, you seem to have a talent for understanding contracts and the law and Hiram told me when I went out to see him today that the laws in Louisiana are…different. He said that we would have to hire a lawyer there since the laws are based on French law and something about 'laws of succession' being different that they are here. I'm hoping that we can handle it ourselves, you and I. Since we'll be strangers in New Orleans and I did leave a few enemies behind, I don't know who I could possibly trust. Marie's cousin, Edoard D'Arcy, had quite a few prominent people in his pocket years ago, and if he's still as wealthy and as influential as he was when I met Joseph's mother, and if he still loathes me which I'm sure he does, well, as I said, I don't know who to trust so I need you to accompany me.

"I'll need you to interpret the legal language and hopefully, together, we'll understand the laws of inheritance and make certain Little Joe will receive what's rightfully his. But even if you didn't accompany me, I couldn't send you away to college just now. Hopefully Old Will can take care of ranch matters while Hop Sing takes care of the home matters, but I just couldn't send you all that way and then leave for New Orleans alone. After all, you may need something and neither Hop Sing or Will would know what to do or have access to the funds if that would be what you need. And I may have to…dip into the money I've earmarked for your education. I hope you understand." I did but said nothing. I just went upstairs and fumed; I knew I wouldn't sleep and if I did, I'd wake up again in the early hours and see Marie again, see her shocked face as she fell from the horse.

~ 0 ~

Adam knew what his father said was true; he couldn't refuse to go to New Orleans although he sulked while packing and during the start of what would be a long, arduous, overland journey from Nevada Territory to Louisiana. Eventually though, his good humor returned and the land through which they passed intrigued him far more than when he and his father had traveled at the beginning of his life. The further they traveled, most of it by stage but part by train, Adam was struck with the sheer number of people who now populated the country and the landscape changed drastically the further south they went along with the climate. It was all vaguely familiar and yet had an exotic strangeness about it, so unlike his earlier trip to Louisiana.

Besides, Adam's conscience was troubling him. His secret knowledge of Marie's trysts, the times he had seen her with another man, was distasteful but Adam hadn't felt he should shift his burden on his father who had suffered so much already. It wouldn't help anything to sully Marie's memory, his father had loved her so.

Adam, swung his legs over the edge of the hotel bed and glanced over at his sleeping father who had stirred when Adam, driven by an upsetting dream, had woken with a painful gasp. But Ben Cartwright continued to softly snore and Adam stared out through the gauze of the mosquito netting hanging from a ring above and draped over the bed and now clinging to his legs. It was not yet summer but Adam felt suffocated by the damp air and for the time, no breeze came through the open window. But even if there had been, it wouldn't have evaporated the sweat that slowly trailed down his temples, chest and back. There was some light from the street below. Although their hotel, L'Hotel Mazarin, was in a better section of the city of New Orleans than the one in which they had stayed years earlier when Adam had accompanied his father, people still seemed to be on the street at all hours, just not the sailors who had caroused the streets near the shabby hotel where they had lodged during the first trip six years ago.

Adam lifted the netting, escaped it and dropped it down behind him. His father's pocket watch was on the bureau and Adam picked it up, the engraving on the silver case partially obliterated from the many years of handling by his father and grandfather, and popped open the case. He held it up at an angle to read the time—3:05. He had been waking at about 3:00 in the morning ever since he saw Marie and the other man. If he slept any more that night, Adam knew it would be sporadic and fitful.

He walked to the long narrow window that opened onto a balcony that ran the length of the building and each room in the hotel opened out to it. There was another balcony about twelve feet above his head. Adam stepped out sideways onto the paved landing that felt cool under the soles of his feet, and there was a slight breeze. His long johns were damp around the waist and crotch from sweating. He would have shed them and slept nude with just the linen sheet over him, but sharing the bed with his father made him think better of it; his father wore a light, cotton nightshirt and had looked askance at Adam when the boy stripped down. Adam left his long johns on.

The iron railing felt cool under his hands as he leaned on it, looking out into the street. He admired the skill it took to craft the iron railing and its decorative design of swirls and curlicues. All the balconies had similar designs and the fences separating houses and protective barriers across the windows were made with the same art. Adam wondered if Paris did look like this as his stepmother had said.

 _"_ _So tell us 'bout New Or-leens," Hoss had asked one evening as they sat in the great room after supper. Marie held her son, Joseph, in her lap, stroking his curls. Adam felt baby Joe was far too protected and spoiled. The firelight reflected on Marie's golden hair; she was truly beautiful and charming and 14-year-old Adam detested her—-or so he told himself. In actuality, she stirred him. He was on the verge of manhood and reluctantly embracing the carnality that had disgusted him as a young boy. Early on, the idea that a man, the most noble of all God's creatures, could be reduced to a beast driven by urges, had always repulsed him. A man needed to use his mind to embrace logic, not a woman. So Adam was torn by the duality of his emotions and often felt as if he was losing his own self, as if he was maturing into someone he didn't recognize._

 _Oftentimes, Adam didn't recognize the person who stared back from the mirror. He began to sprout dark hairs on his chin and his chest—his whole body changing with every passing day. Marie had recently remarked on it causing Adam to blush crimson. She had laughed at his discomfort, telling him that becoming a man was no embarrassment and that soon he would be pouring words of love into some sweet girl's ear hoping to get a kiss. Adam left the room, shaking—Marie was right. How did she know about Becky Simmons? How did she know how he had tried to coerce a kiss from Becky by telling her she was the prettiest girl in school? Marie must see through him, must know what he thought and felt—and if she did, she must know that he wondered what she must look like stepping out of the bath._

 _It was all Marie's fault, Adam felt—all her fault how he felt about her, how he thought about her as Adam had once seen her exposed breast as she prepared to feed infant Joseph, cooing to him in French. Adam froze and then had silently stepped backwards and into the kitchen again, hoping she hadn't noticed him; he was flushed with shame and embarrassment without understanding why._

 _But Marie was a force. That his father basically allowed his wife to lead him along in a dance of desire, embarrassed Adam and made him hate Marie, mainly because Adam knew that if she were his wife, he would follow after her as well. Adam tried to avoid her whenever he could. Nevertheless, he had to sit with the family after supper instead of going to his room—his father had insisted. Adam was part of the family, his father had stated, and would be gone away to school soon. And once Adam had mumbled, "Not soon enough." He was shocked by what he had said and his father turned on him and started to move toward him, but seemed to think better of it and left Adam alone._

 _But that night, Marie had laughed lightly at Hoss' pronunciation of the name of the city in which she was born and raised._

 _"_ _My darling, Hoss. The name is pronounced New 'Or-lee-ahns' as the city in France would be. It is a reminder of the old in the new world and you must speak as if in France. And yet, there are many ignorant pronunciations."_

 _And as Marie, her beauty on display, told of the music played by street musicians, of the pastel houses and the exotic gardens along with the laughter that rose up into the air at any hour, Adam found himself bewitched as well. It was when she finished speaking and put out her hand to draw 7-year old Hoss to her, that Adam snapped back to himself and asked for permission to leave with the excuse of studying. Adam considered how the New Orleans in which Marie had lived was not the one he had experienced on his trip with his father years earlier._

The balcony railing had been painted white but paint had worn away in the spots where many hands before his had held on to it and taken away infinitesimal specks of white with them. Adam couldn't help but wonder who the others had been who stood there, unable to sleep, others plagued by dreams and unpleasant thoughts that seemed to turn around and around in their minds like a wagon wheel—never coming to an end. He recalled an ancient symbol he had once seen in an old history text, the ouroborous, the dragon eating its own tail. Hop Sing who had passed by as Adam sat at the kitchen table writing his report, recognized the picture and said that it was a Chinese dragon symbolizing the cycles of life that begin anew as soon as the previous one ends.

"But Hop Sing, it says in the book that it's a Greek symbol, not Chinese." Adam knew his book wouldn't be wrong about such a thing.

"Greek? Hop Sing not know Greek. Dragon eat tail—Chinese Dragon. Kill self, bring back to life like phoenix. It mean all go round and round forever—never end—never end like spring, summer, fall, winter and spring again. Give hope." And Adam's "never ending" memories of what he had seen on the Ponderosa that day and the fear of what lay ahead had kept him from finding rest. Over and over, around and around, his worries never left him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Just as a note of interest, my inspiration came from this information on Ponderosa Scenery:**

 **Script Trivia:** David Dortort originally had scripted Marie's death at the hands of a jealous lover, who pursues her to the Ponderosa from New Orleans and in the climax Ben kills the man. Writer Anthony Lawrence with Dortort changed Marie's death to a horse riding accident in the front yard of the Ponderosa.

 **Chapter 2**

It had been over three months since Adam had first come across Marie and the other man. He still hadn't told his father about the many times Marie had ridden out and that finally, Adam had found out why; it was to meet the tall, blond-haired man who rode a black horse with a white lip. It was such a sharp contrast that Adam noticed the horse's idiosyncratic marking and that the horse, with its superb conformation, was costly; he had become a good judge of horseflesh in his 17 years.

It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to slant in the direction that told Adam it would soon be supper. His father expected Hop Sing to have the evening meal on the table by six. And it always was. Adam knew that if he wasn't ready to sit down with clean hands at the exact time the big grandfather clock struck six, he was in for a chastisement from not only his father but from Hop Sing as well for making everyone wait.

Adam stood, stretched, and gathered his books together. Although his teacher at the schoolhouse had tried to elevate his teaching material to serve Adam, one of only two males left in school over 14 years, Adam had proved too clever, his mind too nimble, especially when it came to mathematics and grammar—anything that relied on logic. The meagre education he had received at the hands of the passage of teachers, both male and female, had, by necessity, to be supplemented by books, not easy to find in the area, so whenever Ben Cartwright traveled, he often brought back books on history or grammar texts. But what Adam enjoyed most were the novels that his father often acquired. Adam always looked forward to them because his father bought them from booksellers without knowing the contents. It was through them that Adam received a passing knowledge of other lives and the adventures others had—or seemed to have.

And since Ben Cartwright wanted to build up a library in the ranch house, he often ordered books from a publisher back east. And every so often, the publishing house would toss in a novel that hadn't sold well or a slim volume of poetry as a thank you for ordering. These Adam was given to keep in his room and many a night he would sit up late reading the poetry that fed his romantic soul. He saw that through the ages, other men felt the same deep emotions as he did and in a way, it helped him feel less isolated from those around him; they probably seethed with the same emotions as he did only in different proportions. Because of this, Adam arrived at the theory that a person's early life determined which emotion, which sensibility became predominant in a man's character and that's the type of man he became.

Although Adam would have liked to be able to sit and read in the house, these days it was near to impossible. Since his father was often out and on the property during the day, Adam had to manage chores around the ranch and show Hoss, since he would have to take over once Adam left for school, how to manage. And often, Carl Reagan, the foreman's son, and the Bonner brothers who had all left school after the 8th grade, came by wanting Adam to join them in some bit of mischief or to go visiting a girl who was known to be "friendly". Adam envied them their freedom but his father only said they were "wild" and heading for jail or the boneyard and to stay away from them.

But even if Adam finished early, managing to carve out some time for himself, there was always another chore Hop Sing needed done—a chicken caught, beheaded and cleaned for dinner or seeds to be planted in the small garden outside the kitchen or caterpillars to be picked off and squashed. And if Hop Sing had nothing for him, Hoss would badger Adam to play checkers or to go fishing. But worse was when Marie went out for her daily ride on her white mare; she would tell Adam, no matter what he was doing, to watch Little Joe. And the four-year-old demanded attention from his eldest brother, from anyone and everyone. Since the child was so beautiful, even more beautiful than girls his age, he was often petted and spoiled by not only his parents, but strangers as well.

Adam knew he was too old to nurse injured feelings, but Little Joe was both his father's and Marie's favorite child as he was just a "baby" and Hop Sing doted on Hoss, having raised him from a motherless infant. Hop Sing made specific dishes and desserts just because Hoss liked them. Hop Sing would beam when Hoss dug into a dish and made sounds of appreciation that Adam once compared to a hog grunting over a corncob. His father reprimanded him for his insulting remark, so Adam only learned to keep his sarcastic comments to himself—at least for the time being.

But it was the way that Marie so casually left every day to ride, abandoning, at least in Adam's eyes, her responsibilities, that irritated Adam the most. He would sit and fume while Joseph and Hoss would harass him to entertain them.

"Now, Adam," Ben had responded when Adam gathered the courage to complain. Adam had feared that his resentment of Marie, his dislike for her would come through but if it did, his father didn't notice—or he did and ignored it. "I know how you feel but your mother needs fresh air and exercise. Watching Joseph for an hour or two won't hurt you. He is your brother, you know."

"And he's her child." Adam pursed his lips to keep a vitriolic response from escaping, the words, "She's not my mother," bubbled to his lips but he swallowed to keep from speaking them.

Ben stood up, looking down at his son. "I've heard the last of this from you. You're part of this family and if your mother…" He noticed Adam's dropped eyes, his general expression become blank, "if Joe's mother wants you to watch him for a bit so she can get away for a bit of fresh air, you shouldn't begrudge her."

But Adam contrived a way around it. Marie left every afternoon about 3:00. She always sent Adam to saddle her horse while she went to dress. Adam would quickly take care of the horse and then gather a few books and take out on his own for a spot by the lake to read and study. If Hop Sing had to care for Joseph and Hoss and prepare supper as well, so be it, Adam thought. Hop Sing wasn't heading for a school populated by scions of great families but Adam was and he would have to stand out some way to his professors since he wouldn't have the name or the money, so he hoped that he could impress them with his knowledge.

So far, over the past few days, his ruse had roused no complaints from Hop Sing unless he told them to Marie. And if he had complained to her, she hadn't said anything to her husband.

As it was time for supper, Adam mounted after shoving his books back into the saddlebags. He turned the horse's head toward home and didn't even have to kick the animal; it knew where to go as it was supper time for him as well. The horse took off at a quick walk, Adam holding it back slightly as the animal was eager to get home to the barn. Adam maneuvering his mount through the uneven ground, watching for holes and protruding roots and suddenly pulled the horse to a stop, listening. He craned his neck, raising himself straight-legged in the stirrups, and through the branches of the trees, he could just see two people a distance away. Adam couldn't hear what they were saying but he could hear voices, a man's and a woman's. Marie's voice.

The horse shook his head and snuffled. It didn't want to stop so far from the barn.

"Okay, quiet boy," Adam murmured to the animal, gently patting its neck then slowly dismounting. He tied the reins over a low-hanging branch. Then crouching, Adam made his way closer to the two people. Now he could hear Marie's voice as it became more strident. She was crying, pleading with the man who held her by her forearms and was pleading in return. Adam watched, still not close enough to make out the words but still able to see. Suddenly the man pulled Marie to him and kissed her, passionately and deeply. Marie pulled back, struggling to be released. Adam held his breath. He needed to decide if he should reveal himself and hopefully, the man would then let Marie go. But then she would be embarrassed, maybe ashamed, and how would things be at home then? She would probably even accuse him of spying of her intentionally, accuse him of following her out on her ride.

Adam was confused as to what to do but there was no need for action as Marie suddenly seemed to surrender. She gave a cry, "Oh, Arnaud," and no longer struggled in his embrace.

As carefully as he could, Adam backed up and then, turning, made his way to his horse, his heart thudding. He untied the reins and led his horse a short distance away before he mounted, wondering what he should do with this knowledge that made him feel powerful. If he told his father what he'd seen, maybe Marie would no longer be an issue; his father might send her away. Maybe though, Marie would leave his father to go away with the man, Arnaud. But neither option was desirable. Adam knew that. The pain either would cause his father wasn't worth being rid of Marie and both Joseph and Hoss would miss her terribly. And he had to admit to himself that he was being selfish and cruel.

Adam's theory of what shaped men, he applied to himself as well. He knew he resented Marie because she aroused thoughts in him that shamed him—not so much about her but about women in general. He would sit in church and instead of focusing on the sermon, he would scan for pretty girls and think about kissing them and touching them. And because Marie was beautiful and charming and sang around the house, he could never be free of her influence. Adam knew he hated Marie because he really hated the uncomfortable feelings and thoughts that gripped him and he couldn't escape. Because he recognized why he wanted to destroy Marie, Adam determined he would say nothing, do nothing, and let the matter resolve itself, howsoever it did. Besides, he would soon be gone, soon be back east at college and he would have other things to occupy him.

Marie came home late, apologizing, saying she had stopped to watch some deer. She was bright and gay, her cheeks flushed. They had held dinner for her. How nice, she said, but she wished they had started without her. Come here, Joseph, mon petit amour. Marie picked up her son and hugged him to her while Adam, Hoss and Ben stood until she took her seat, tossing her leather riding gloves onto the sideboard.

Marie chatted through dinner, laughing lightly at Joe's childish comments and Hoss even commented that Momma seemed happier that night. But Adam stayed quiet and Marie only met his eyes once, held his gaze for only a heartbeat or two and then turned her attention to her husband.

Adam wondered if Marie knew he had seen her with the man or if she only suspected. But, Adam rationalized, it was probably his own conscience that made him believe there was something other than mere interest in her gaze. But she was more vivacious that usual and Adam wondered if Marie had dropped to the ground along with the tall, blond man, and done the deed of kind.

For the next few days, Marie had gone riding at the same time and Adam noted that she seemed highly-strung. Just the day before, Hoss had come across her crying.

"She was cryin', Adam! Momma was layin' on her bed cryin', just sobbin' away. What d'you think is wrong?"

"None of your business. None of my business." Adam hadn't looked up from his book, just sat with the chair resting on its back feet, his long-legs crossed as his feet rested on the desk top.

"Should I tell Pa?"

"If you want to." Adam still stared at the page before him, not reading, the words a jumble on the page. Adam finally looked at Hoss who stood by his chair. "But if you do, you might get in trouble for being where you shouldn't have. You shouldn't have pushed the door open to look."

"But I heard her cryin! I was gonna ask'er what was wrong but, well, she was just cryin' so hard that…maybe she done hurt herself."

"I'm sure she'll be alright, Hoss," Adam said, dropping his chair down to all four legs. "Maybe she was just worried about something. I'm sure she'll talk to Pa and he'll take care of whatever it is. She might just not feel good. You know how you feel when you eat too much dessert. Don't worry about it. It's probably just grown-up stuff."

"Yeah. I guess you're right, Adam. But I hate to see Momma unhappy. You know, I saw a patch of larkspur. I'll pick 'er some."

"Good idea," Adam said smiling at Hoss. That was Hoss, always wanting to put things right. "I think she'll like that. It'll make her smile and I bet she'll forget all about feeling bad."

Adam sat for a while longer. By the sun, it looked to be about 3:00 in the afternoon. Marie would be leaving soon for her afternoon ride.

"Adam! Adam, are you up there?"

Adam shut his book. Marie wanted him to saddle her horse. She was going to go riding and more than likely, meet up with "Arnaud." He rose from the chair and stretched. He was fatigued, not having slept much the night before and his body registered the lack of rest. He had woken about 3:00 am and had slept fitfully until dawn, dreaming about Marie-unpleasant dreams about Marie and they had colored his view of her that day. He had been relieved to arise from his bed and dress for his morning chores.

And now he had another chore ahead of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

My father and I sat in the lawyer's stuffy office. The two windows, one on each side of the room, were open, but the air was heavy - humid, is the term. There were pots of ferns and palms about the room, and they gave the office an exotic flair. It seemed that no matter where we went in New Orleans, there were lush and leafy plants everywhere.

No one said anything, we just sat listening to the burlwood clock tick off the seconds as we waited for Mr. and Mrs. Prejean. I studied the lawyer, a Mr. Bergeron, Attorney at Law, as the shingle stated outside. He was a heavy man with a belly that threatened to burst free of the weskit as it strained the buttons. I considered how funny it would be if buttons popped off, one after the other, and smiled at the thought. My father looked at me oddly and I went back to looking serious. After all, the situation was serious, at least in my father's mind.

The lawyer kept wiping his brow and cheeks with a linen handkerchief he pulled from his pocket and then would put it back only to have to pull it out again a minute later. But he seemed innocuous enough, not that I've had much truck with lawyers. The only one I knew was Hiram Wood back home who had a daughter about my age, Betty Mae. Every time he'd see me, he'd make sure to mention her and I'd have to side-step the topic like I would a pile of cow shit. But apparently, this lawyer was of a different ilk. When we'd been ushered in by his law clerk, a small, nervous man of about 30 years, Mr. Bergeron reached out for my father, shaking his hand and offering his condolences on the loss of "Madam Cartwright". He thanked us for coming such a great distance to settle this "bothersome inheritance issue. Such a shame there has to be any trouble but things can become messy when there are contestants of the will. Hopefully we can settle it all today."

"Yes," my father said, "I hope so as well. My son and I would like to return to Nevada as soon as possible."

Mr. Bergeron smiled indulgently and then put out his hand for me. His palm was soft, hot and moist. "You are not Joseph Cartwright then?"

"No," my father answered for me. "Joseph is just a child, only five years old. Adam is my eldest boy."

The lawyer still held my hand, smiling, and clasped his other hand over it. "I see. I have only recently, well, within the last few months, been retained so I am unsure as to who is who—ages, other status of the people involved. It is my pleasure to meet you, young man."

He released my hand and as I sat down, I couldn't help it – I wiped my hand off on my trousers.

"Let's hope we are successful and that all involved will be reasonable; that is all one can ask." Mr. Bergeron smiled again and then sat back in his leather chair; the leather groaned.

Those were the last words anyone spoke for a good ten minutes.

I studied the lawyer's suit. It was well-made of a lightweight worsted. It seemed to have been tailored to fit him about twenty pounds ago. But his shirt was crisp and the cuffs bragged a set of silver cuff-links that held square-cut blue sapphires. He obviously did well.

A slight breeze lifted the light, airy curtains on one window. Street sounds floated up but this was the business district of New Orleans so there were no carefree sounds, just carriages, other street sounds, and a few voices raised in delight or displeasure. But I recognized the sound of a buggy pulling up out front and that of a horse - it's snuffling and displeasure of stopping anywhere other than the stable. A male voice ordered, "Wait for me." It was a stern voice, demanding and severe. I assume the recipient of the order nodded because soon after, the sound of voices outside the door let us know someone was about to enter. I could hear the timid clerk importuning the person but the strong voice dismissed him and the door opened.

A tall, elegantly-dressed man stood in the doorway. His clothing was dazzling. He wore what we called a "John Bull" hat; a type of shorter top hat. His suit jacket, a frock coat. was perfectly tailored for his tall and lean build. He held himself as I imagined an aristocrat at King Louis the 16th's court did. Mr. Bergeron rose out of obeisance, or so it seemed to me. There was a slight tilt of the head and shoulders toward the man.

My father stood, but not out of respect. I could tell he was angry, perhaps offended, but before he could speak, the other man did.

"So, you and your dreams have finally killed Marie and you dare to show your face in New Orleans!"

"How dare _you_ show your face, D'Arcy! You, who wanted nothing more than to ruin her! Well, now she's dead, my love, my wife…."

My father's voice cracked with emotion and he put his hand to his mouth and turned away, walking to the window. He placed one hand on the window frame and looked down onto what must have been an alley.

"Mr. D'Arcy," Mr. Bergeron said, still slightly bowed, pleading. "I had no idea you would be here. There is no settlement in the will applying to you. You are a cousin, true, but as far as the laws of succession here in Louisiana, there are others with greater sanguinary ties such as the late Marie Marigny and Mr. Cartwright's son, Joseph Cartwright, and both Mr. and Mrs. Prejean are each her first cousins.

"Nevertheless," Mr. D'Arcy said, "I am here to see that her inheritance does not go to this…." He gestured indifferently at my father and me, "this barbare grossiers or his whelp!"

My father turned and although neither of us quite knew what D'Arcy had said, we both knew we had been insulted, if from nothing else, from the sneer on his elegant face.

"How dare you…" My father rushed toward D'Arcy and I jumped up to grab his arm, to stop him from striking D'Arcy as I was sure he would do.

"Pa, you need to think before you do something you'll regret. You don't want to be arrested here in New Orleans." My father smiled weakly and clapped a hand on my shoulder. I looked at D'Arcy who had a small smile as if he had accomplished just what he wanted, to upset my father, to knock him off-kilter.

We took out seats but D'Arcy, although offered a chair by Mr. Bergeron, declined, and moved over to the window facing the street; he was overwhelmingly pleased with himself. He pulled a silver cigarette case out of the inside pocket of his jacket, removed one, and lit it; they were obviously not the crudely rolled cigarettes that I had seen many a ranch hand make for a quick smoke. D'Arcy leaned against the wall, placed one hand in a trouser pocket and glanced sideways out the window with an air of insouciance while he smoked. He exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. He stood up straight at the same time I heard another carriage stop out front and the light voice of a woman floated up to us.

"At last," D'Arcy said mainly to himself, "they have arrived." He glanced at the clock. "Later than I—most unusual. But then, that is a woman for you."

I knew he was talking about the Prejeans. It is with them that there was an issue over the property in the will; they were contesting. Little Joe was the nearest relative to the testator other than the Prejeans and this meeting in New Orleans was to decide who was to inherit the grand house that had been owned by Antoinette D'Vaille, a widow with no children. She had moved back to her beloved France the last few years of her life and allowed her nephew and his wife, who was also a niece, to live in the house. They now claimed it. I considered that back in Nevada Territory, the Prejeans might very well be considered squatters and run off the property by my father, claiming the house for Joe. But we weren't in Nevada and we had to tread lightly.

While still on the Ponderosa, I had read the papers the lawyer sent to my father and even ridden into Silver City to send the telegram informing the lawyer, Paul Bergeron, Esq, that Mr. Ben Cartwright had received the letter informing him of Marie's inheritance and enquiring of any progeny. I followed up the telegram with a letter informing Mr. Bergeron that Marie had a son, one Joseph Francis Cartwright. Then I stopped by Hiram Wood's office, asked him to read the letter and give his opinion. Hiram was the lawyer for my father and the Ponderosa's business interests and had a small office outside Silver Hill which was becoming populated by miners hoping for a stake. His main work was to file claims and settle disputes-legally. Hiram seemed to resent having to deal with me instead of my father. After all, I was just a snot-nosed kid as far as he was concerned. The only reason I think he was as nice to me as he was, was because of his daughter, Betty Mae, like I said earlier, but unfortunately, she was bland and uninteresting—at least to me. She usually had a vacant smile and once I danced with her at a social and found that afterwards, I couldn't get away; she assumed I was her companion for the whole evening.

Hiram turned to searching his book shelves. He found a thick book for me to read. It was titled _The Napoleonic Code_.

"The laws in Louisiana are based on the laws in France, Adam. They're like nowhere else in this country. This book explains the laws that were enacted after the French Revolution; they're supposedly based on common sense. You and your father would do well to learn as much as you can before you get there. I wouldn't put this matter into the hands of an unknown commodity such as a Louisiana lawyer; they don't take much to outsiders."

"Thanks, Mr. Wood. I'll read the section on inheritance," I said. "And I promise I'll return the book in good condition." I knew that my father would depend on me to read the laws; he was still too despondent to concentrate on such dry writing.

"I'm sure you will, son." Hiram patted my shoulder and walked with me to the office door. "Give your father my regards. By the way, how is he?"

I stood in the open doorway. "He's doing well, thank you." Hiram smiled but continued to stand unmoving. I knew it was my turn. "And how is Betty Mae?"

"She's fine, thank you. I'll tell her you asked about her. I know, why don't you drop by for dinner tonight? Betty Mae's a pretty good cook!"

"I think it's best I keep close to home but thank you for the invitation. Besides, I have a great deal of reading to do." I held up the book for emphasis and Hiram chuckled. And with that, he let me leave.

And on the ride home I relived that afternoon as I had so many times.

Basically, after Marie died, Hoss and Little Joe were inconsolable. Joe didn't understand what had happened, only wept for his Momma as did Hoss. But Hoss knew because he had run out of the house with Hop Sing after I called for him as I kneeled by Marie's lifeless body.

I had seen dead people before at funerals and once found a partially decomposed Indian corpse on the property. But at funerals, they look different, the corpses cleaned up by the undertaker and posed as if sleeping peacefully. The Indian had been dead for at least a week and vultures and other carrion had torn limbs off his body, gorged themselves on his liver and such, while ants and other insects slowly and diligently took away minuscule pieces of flesh.

Marie was freshly dead, her skirts awry, her arms flung about and her head at an odd angle and her cheeks were flushed; she was still beautiful and looked as if she would turn her head and look at me—embarrassed that I had seen her in such a state of disarray. The white mare was trying to walk but one front lower legbone was protruding from the flesh, the end roughly broken; the animal would have to be shot. For some odd reason, my first impulse was to put the horse out of its suffering before I even bothered with Marie. After all, she was dead and the horse was limping in obvious pain, making sounds of distress.

I had seen the whole thing happen. I was outside replacing the porch boards. My father wanted it done immediately. "Someone might be hurt," he had told me as he left the house, buckling on his holster. "Your mother complained about it just yesterday when she caught her heel. So, I want you to measure, cut and replace them and when Hoss comes home from school, have him muck out the stalls and milk the cows. And have him put the old sawdust in the wheelbarrow and dump it instead of just leaving it in a pile in the barn. As for you, I want you to replace all the boards on the porch, not just a few, understand?"

"But, Pa, only two boards sre split. Why do I have to replace them all?"

He sighed and looked at me. "Why do you argue with everything I say lately. If two boards split, the others will probably do so soon; they were already here when we bought the place and been here years before that. Old Mister Flannery, according to Tom Edwards, used whatever scraps of pine he could get-or steal from the other homesteaders. So, don't argue and replace them all as I said. I'm trying to bring this place up now that we have the money to do so. Besides, we need more room. There may be more Cartwrights soon." And my father smiled.

I was disgusted and disappointed. I was deep into French history mainly so I could dispute what Marie said about France and its royalty. Apparently, many good citizens of New Orleans, including Marie, claimed to be related to the aristocrats who escaped the tyranny of the French Revolution. I was sure she was lying and couldn't understand why she would. My father loved her and both he and Hop Sing treated her like a queen. What did it matter who her relatives were?

Hoss was almost finished with his chores and was in the house, more than likely hanging around the kitchen, waiting for Hop Sing to use him to taste the various dishes. And as long as his hands were clean, Hoss would be sticking it in the cookie jar as no matter how many he ate, they never spoiled his prodigious appetite. I knew I'd have to remind Hoss to empty the wheelbarrow as Pa had said.

I was measuring boards carefully and then double-checking before I cut them. If the board was slightly longer, far better than shorter; I would use the planer to make the boards even. It was my quirk; everything had to be to exact specifications for I wouldn't accept less from myself. So, I was engrossed with the porch boards when Marie came racing into the front yard. I stood up when I heard the hooves and then watched as Marie came into view around the corner of the barn but she was looking back over her shoulder while viciously kicking the mare. The mare, following Marie's urging, collided with the wheelbarrow full of the soiled sawdust that Hoss had left in front of the barn. The animal went over the wheelbarrow, attempted to jump over the obstacle but failed, landing heavily on its buckled front legs.

Marie's eyes went wide and she tumbled head-first over the horse's lowered neck, her body sounding hollow as it smacked the ground. Her left foot was still in the stirrup of the sidesaddle, causing her to be twisted as the white mare struggled to rise from its knees, it's hindquarters still partially over the wheelbarrow. Marie never made a sound but I can close my eyes and still see her face; she was so surprised by it all.

I froze for a split second and then saw a man ride up around the barn, having followed Marie. He stopped his horse, pulling hard on the reins, causing the horse to turn its head and lift its front hooves off the ground to relieve the pressure on its mouth. The rider was the tall blond man. His face revealed his horror as he looked at Marie and her broken body. And then he looked right at me. Our eyes locked for a split second. Then he turned his horse and rode away.

The man who entered Mr. Bergeron's office with his wife on his arm was the same man. Our eyes locked again and he blanched. I couldn't breathe. And then he looked away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

At about 3:00 in the morning, I always wake, my heart pounding, and relive the scene again and again and seeing Arnaud Prejean brought the whole thing back as if I was in the yard of the Ponderosa again and Marie's broken body lay on the ground. I had called out and Hop Sing came from the kitchen in that squatting run he has, his brow furrowed, Hoss behind him, and I was at a loss as to what to do; it was overwhelming. Hop Sing kneeled beside me, repeating something in Chinese; they might have been prayers to some Chinese god-I don't know.

"Go get, Pa," I told Hoss. "He's supposed to be at the mill. Go get him."

"Sure, Adam. What do I tell 'im?" Hoss' eyes were big with fear.

"Tell him…tell him…Momma's been hurt. Tell him that." But Hoss just stood as if planted.

And then Joe came out. He started crying and asking what was wrong with "Momma." He wanted to go to her but Hop Sing held him back. I think Joe caught our fear and that's why he started sobbing and struggling against Hop Sing and then began shrieking. I grabbed him from Hop Sing and pulled him into the house while he kicked and twisted and threw himself on the ground. I held him up by one arm and told him his mother was sick and we needed to get the doctor. I made Hoss stay with Joe, told Hoss to not let him outside. I grabbed a blanket from the chest by the front door and when I was outside, Hop Sing stood and looked at me as if I had some answer to an unspoken question. I placed the blanket over Marie and then, considering what Joe would think if he managed to get away from Hoss, folded it down so her face was revealed.

The horse was still limping about, trying to stand still on three legs but his broken leg almost made it collapse; it was breathing heavily with an odd hollow sound. I knew I should be merciful and shoot it but then both Hoss and Joe would probably come running out wondering why I had killed the horse. I stood there, not knowing what to do next. All the ranch hands were out on the property and even the bunkhouse cook wasn't back from serving them their lunch. So, I made the decisions.

"Help me carry my stepmother. We're going to put her in the buckboard and I'm taking her to Doc Binns." Tom Binns, or "Doc", it being just an honorary title of sorts, functioned as the local doctor, dentist and undertaker. He set broken arms and legs, pulled out rotten, painful teeth and sewed up cuts and split lips. Since he had nothing really to deaden the pain, small children had it worst. As for adults, "Doc" gave them so much cheap whiskey that they quickly became drunk-not that it deadened the pain so much, but they were so sloppy drunk they just didn't give a goddamn. Our foreman said that once he even sang an obscene sea shanty while "Doc" cleaned out the dirt and then stitched his thigh shut where he had been gored by an annoyed steer who hadn't yet been dehorned.

Hop Sing nodded to me and together we gently lifted Marie and placed her in the back. Then I quickly hitched-up my horse. My mind was racing, thinking about what I needed to do next and my fingers worked on their own—buckling and hooking. When I was finished, I had no memory of having done it. I double-checked the traces and when I was satisfied they were secure, I turned to Hop Sing.

"What we do now?" Hop Sing asked. "Your father—him need know."

"Yes. He needs to know." I leaned against the horse. I wanted to cry. That was the first time in years that I just wanted to break down and cry. Marie was dead and it had all fallen to me. I didn't want to handle all this. I wanted to give my burden to someone else. "Let's hitch up the buggy," I told him. "Take Hoss and Joe and find my father. He told me he'd be at the mill checking on an order and sending out cutting crews, but…he may be on his way home. Take the east road—that's the shortest route. He'd come home that way. Send him to Doc Binns' to see my stepmother – tell him I took her there."

Hop Sing nodded and we quickly hitched the last horse in the paddock to the buggy. I said I'd tell both Hoss and Little Joe I was taking "Momma" to the doctors and Hop Sing was taking them to find Pa; that seemed to placate Little Joe whose face was blotchy and whose nose was running from his crying. Hop Sing climbed up to the driver's seat, waiting patiently for my brothers but I could see he was shaken by Marie's death. She and he had gone round and round about a few things over the past few years but he had come to accept her and he also knew she made my father happy; this had shaken him deeply. He awkwardly picked up the reins; he didn't care for horses and he disliked driving buggies but for this, he'd do it. I started to head to the house to get a rifle; I knew not to travel without some type of weapon; the territory was rife with outlaws and wandering men who saw opportunities everywhere to enrich themselves with a fine horse.

"Where's Momma?" Little Joe asked, sniffing. Hoss looked at me, his mouth open in bewilderment, his eyes, fearful. After all, he was almost 11 – still a child really.

"I'm taking Momma to the doctor. You and Hoss need to go with Hop Sing to find Pa and tell him Momma fell off her horse, okay?"

Hoss tightly closed his mouth; he understood. "Sure, Adam. C'mon, Joe. Let's go with Hop Sing and find Pa. Hop Sing'll tell Pa Momma's sick. C'mon." Hoss took Joe's small, hand. Joe wiped the back of his other hand across his nose and down his cheeks, smearing snot all over his face. I pulled a bandana out of my back pocket.

"Here, Joe. Lemme wipe your nose." He submitted while I tidied him up. "Oh, and Hoss, the horse is sick. I'm going to take care of it, take it behind the house. Understand?"

"Yeah, Adam, I understand."

I watched while Joe asked Hoss about "Momma's horse," asking what was wrong with its leg, why was it bleeding and making that funny sound? I don't know what Hoss answered because I went inside and over to the rifles, picked one, broke it open to check it and then went out to take care of the mare. I led it a far distance from the house, the animal limping pathetically, breathing heavily in pain. I don't know how I managed as I didn't much like killing things but it had to be done. As the mare stood quivering, I aimed at its lowered head and pulled the trigger. I hadn't counted on any blow-back and was flecked with bits of blood. When I finally pulled up to Doc Binns' storefront, I don't think he believed me as to how I came to be such a grisly mess but I didn't care. I just wanted someone to take my burden from me.

"She's dead, Adam," Binns said, confused. He said it as if I didn't know.

"I know she's dead. But my Pa wasn't home and Joe and Hoss, well…my pa'll be here soon. If you'd help me take her inside, I'll wait until he gets here."

My father arrived within the hour and I couldn't bear to see his grief. I didn't think he'd want me to see him that way but he barely even acknowledged me. I left and went to sit outside on the front stoop. It was dark when my father came out and asked me for details, his face like pale stone.

I told him how she'd come riding up around the corner of the barn, how she wasn't looking and ran into the wheel barrow. The mare had barreled into it, fell over it and snapped its leg—the cannon bone. "I took it out back a-way and shot it. I'm hoping a bear or wolves will drag it away before vultures start circling. I don't want Hoss or Joe to see them."

"I would have shot it anyway." My father's face was stiff but I could tell he had been crying. "Why was she riding so fast? I don't understand. She was an excellent horsewoman."

Binns had lit the lamps in his front room at some time and the light lit up one side of my father's face. It may have been a play of the light and shadow but I swear he looked ten years older.

"I don't understand," my father said. "I just don't." He wasn't looking at me and the words crawled up my throat.

"A man was following her," I said. "She might've been trying to get away from him."

"A man? What man?" My father snapped to look me in the face but I hoped that I was standing in the shadows; I might otherwise give away that I was holding back.

"He was tall, blond hair and rode a black horse with a white lip."

"You noticed all that?" I knew my father was suspicious of my description. He was thinking, I'm sure, of just how I would know. Had the man stayed? Had he stopped to help with Marie's body?

"I'd seen him before. He and…Marie had met out on the property before. I saw them…together."

"You saw them? Where? When?"

I told him about the day I was riding back from studying at the lake and heard voices. When I'd ridden over, I told him, I saw the two talking. I couldn't hear what they were saying – I never got that close."

"You have no idea what they were talking about?"

"No." I wasn't lying, I hadn't heard. But I kept the name to myself. I wasn't quite sure why except that I knew, for some reason, it would hurt my father to know she was meeting with a man and they were on first-name basis; that would imply an intimacy.

"And he rode a black horse with a white lip?"

"Yes."

"And this man saw her fall, saw her…saw what happened and then just turned and rode away?"

"Yes."

We stood in silence while I debated whether or not to tell my father they whole story as I knew it but Marie was dead and I would do anything to ease my father's pain – even lie. To reveal she kissed another man when my father loved her so, well, I might as well just take a knife and stab him through the heart.

"Go back home, Adam. I'm going to go look for a black horse with a white lip. If I can't find it here, I'm going to Carson City. Tell Hop Sing. You take care of your brothers." My father mounted his horse but I grabbed the reins to stop him.

"What do I tell Joe and Hoss? You should be the one to tell them about…" I couldn't finish. It was his place, not mine, to tell Joseph his mother was dead. And Hoss, Hoss already knew she was dead but he would ask questions.

"Tell them…tell them I'll talk to them when I get home and that their mother…she's being taken care of. Just tell them that."

I let go of the reins and stepped back and my father rode off into the darkness. A shudder gripped me; I suddenly felt like a small boy, as vulnerable as Joseph and Hoss, the tears welling up. My chest ached with sadness and I wanted to cry. I sat back on the stoop and did. I still remember how hot the tears felt on my cheeks and the pain as the sobs ripped through my chest. And there in the dark I prayed simply for God to help us get through this. And to also watch over my father and to bring him home safely.

My father did find the black horse with the white lip at a livery in Carson City. A man, my father said, the tall blond man I must have seen, sold it to the livery owner. On the bill of sale my father asked to see, the name was Mr. Brand and he told the livery owner he was leaving on the late stage and that's why he was willing to let his horse go at such a good price. By the time my father discovered all this, the stage had been gone for hours. I think my father would have gone after the man if it hadn't been for Little Joe. Had it just been Hoss and me, I think he would have left us for the time it took to track down the man but he knew Little Joe needed him. I did too but I never told him that and I wouldn't either. So, my father came home and the house was draped in black crepe and we had a funeral for Marie. The nearby neighbors came and the women brought food and the men brought moonshine and the shadow of grief stayed over the Ponderosa and darkened our days. Marie was buried out by the lake and my father ordered a headstone from San Francisco.

Then the letter came from Mr. Bergeron and my father had a reason to go about life. He was going to get justice for Marie's son.

~ 0 ~

The lawyer's office seemed hotter now that both the Prejeans had entered. Bergeron, and Edoard D'Arcy along with my father, stood in the presence of Madame Prejean. I wasn't thinking though, still startled by seeing Arnaud Prejean, and could barely get a deep breath so my father lightly touched my arm and I rose from my chair. Everyone was introduced and once Madame Prejean sat, we all did.

I remained quiet while Mr. Bergeron explained the will and the line of succession according to the Napoleonic Code, I studied the Prejeans. Arnaud Prejean sat back in his chair with his legs crossed at the knee and Mme Prejean cooly sat as if she was above it all. She was as well dressed as her husband. Her dress was obviously expensive. It was of deep yellow silk and had lace-edged ruffles. Her hat was pink and sat at an angle, the yellow ringlets of her hair tumbling over one shoulder.

Prejean was also expensively dressed, and like D'Arcy, his clothes were perfectly tailored, his shoes shined to a mirror gloss. His hat was of a style I'd never seen and he had taken it off with air of disdain. I wondered where his money came from, if he had inherited any of Antoinette DeVaille's money. If so, then he might very well claim the house as his for it would appear as if he was Antoinette DeVaille's chosen heir.

My father was also well-dressed wearing a silver brocade vest under his striped suit jacket and sitting in the room with all the others, I became acutely aware of my shabby suit of clothes. I wore an old suit of my father's that had been crudely altered by Mrs. Shaughnessy, a neighbor who often helped out. The seat of the trousers was shiny so I was glad now that the suit jacket was longer than what it should be for me; when I stood, maybe the worn fabric would be hidden. The jacket stance was out of fashion so I left the jacket unbuttoned. I looked at the cuffs and noticed that the edges were slightly frayed and the cuff-links were an old brass pair of my father's. The white shirt I wore wasn't starched and pressed and with the way I was sweating, I knew it was wrinkled. I wanted to hide. I swore then that once I was able to afford it, I would never be so poorly dressed again. I would have so many well-fitted store-bought shirts that I'd be able to wear a clean one every day. I'd have a suit made just for me, not some hand-me-down from my father and I'd own boots for working and a fancy pair for dress. And more than one hat.

M. Bergeron droned on as he explained that since Madame DeVaille had died in France without a will, if she had had any children, they would inherit the New Orleans house. But she had none so her closest blood relative which would have been Marie DeVaille DeMarigny Cartwright were she alive, would inherit. Now, upon her unfortunate demise, her nearest blood relative, in this case, Joseph Francis Cartwright, her son, inherits.

I closely watched Arnaud Prejean but he avoided my gaze. He registered no emotion when Bergeron spoke of Marie's accidental death, but I noticed his wife glance at him. It was almost as if they were playing poker; he was bluffing, keeping a bland face, and she was trying to discern a tell. She had an odd expression making her face look almost sad. And a beautiful face it was. Her complexion was milky, her cheeks and lips rosy, her large eyes, a bright blue. I had thought Marie was beautiful but Mme Prejean, Eugenie, was even more so-at least to me. Perhaps it was because she was younger than Marie. I don't really know but I could barely take my eyes from her although when she glanced at me, I flushed slightly and looked back to Bergeron. I wondered what she thought of me and then chided myself. Why would a woman like her think anything of me at all? As far as she was concerned, I was just a crude, uncouth young man from the wilds of Nevada who had had to be prompted by his father to stand in the presence of a lady.

A fly was buzzing about the room and it kept trying to land somewhere. It held my attention as it circled the room and then it came close to my ear, annoying me. I swatted it away. Mme Prejean flicked open an ivory fan that had been hanging by a golden cord from her narrow wrist, and negligently waved it back and forth below her lovely face and the small, fine tendrils that fell about her temples gently moved. I was puzzled as to why Arnaud Prejean, with a wife this lovely, as delectable as Eugenie Prejean was, would have traveled all that distance to Nevada to have a tryst with Marie. But men have varied tastes and what was beautiful to me, a woman who made me shift in my chair and break out into a cold sweat, might have no effect on another man. That was one of the vagaries of life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The heat was oppressive. As Adam looked about the office at everyone sitting and supposedly listening to the laws surrounding inheritance, he wondered what he would be doing were he back on the Ponderosa. It was becoming hot there as well, but instead of the heavy, hot suit and the buttoned-up shirt with the suffocating string tie, he would be wearing a familiar cotton, open-necked work shirt, the cuffs rolled-up.

M. Bergeron was dripping sweat and was constantly mopping his face. D'Arcy was alert, listening, not a single hair out of place, and when M. Bergeron had completed his recitation of the statutes, D'Arcy snorted in disdain. Adam had wondered why D'Arcy was there. He was Marie's cousin and Adam's father had told him of their shared history, how he and D'Arcy had dueled and how he had shamed the man by not finishing him off after disarming him, but instead, forced him to clear Marie's name of the adultery charge. And for that act, Ben Cartwright had won the heart of Marie DeMarigny and the eternal hate of D'Arcy. But after what Adam had seen, he wasn't so sure about Marie's love for his father. Perhaps Marie, his stepmother, had found an escape from her notorious past – and her married lover. One's past often catches up with them. Adam knew that, had even witnessed it and seen the deadly consequences. Perhaps, Adam considered, D'Arcy was yet trying to hurt his father through Joseph, through Marie's son, and by doing so, attempted to diminish his feelings for Marie whom Adam was sure D'Arcy loved. Love so often turned to hate – the other side of the coin.

"M. Bergeron," D'Arcy said, his voice dripping with disdain, "granted that Marie was a niece of Antoinette DeVaille, but Mr. Prejean is a nephew—also a blood relative." D'Arcy glanced to Prejean who nodded in recognition of the fact.

"Yes," said Prejean, "and not only am I a nephew, but my wife is my cousin, also related to Madame DeVaille. Therefore, it seems that we have a greater claim to the property and the furnishings within. Not only that, but we have been living in the house for almost six years with the permission of M. D'Arcy who had been given permission to be an executor of sorts, that is if I understand the business relationship."

Prejean looked to D'Arcy who nodded and then continued to light another cigarette, this time placing it into a short cigarette holder he pulled from a pocket. It gave him an odd air of effeminacy.

"Now if you would like me to involve my own lawyer in this," Prejean said, "I shall, but I would prefer to resolve this inheritance issue now." Prejean looked to Ben Cartwright but avoided Adam.

Ben Cartwright leaned forward in his chair. "Let me see if I understand this; you claim to be on equal footing as my deceased wife when it comes to inheriting the property? How is that?"

The room fell silent as Prejean reached inside his suit jacket to bring out a cigarette case. He slowly pulled one out, replaced the silver case, and then lit the cigarette with a match from an enameled box on Bergeron's desk. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled while everyone waited. D'Arcy smiled.

"I claim to be on equal footing with her son."

"My son."

Prejean shrugged. "My mother was a sister of Antoinette DeVaille. Her name was Aurore DeVaille and she married my father, Etienne Prejean. Therefore, I am her nephew as Marie was her niece. Marie, qu'elle repose en paix, would have, I am sure, relegated any claim on the property to me."

"And just why would she do that?"

"Parce que - because, from what I have been told, Marie detested New Orleans and its inhabitants. Did you not take her away from all this? Were you not her savior?" Prejean waved his hand to indicate the environs. "Why would she want to return or own anything that tied her to this city?"

Adam waited. His father had been insulted by the man who had chased Marie to her death although his father was still ignorant of that fact, but not for long. Adam's heart raced as the urge to reveal what he knew, what he had seen, was roiling in his chest. But, Adam thought, things are often not what they seem. He also knew his father was still fresh from the loss of Marie. How would his father react? Would he grab Prejean by his elegant cravat and threaten his life? Strike him? Challenge him to a duel to the death? Various scenarios played out in Adam's head and so he thought it best to remain silent.

"You are forgetting," D'Arcy interrupted, "about your lovely wife, Eugenie, Madame Prejean." D'Arcy acknowledged her with a slight dip of his head, smiling at her, but her face never changed expression. "You see, Mr. Cartwright, Mme Prejean has made the house a home for her and her husband, and, if you will forgive me for revealing such personal information, Madame…" D'Arcy nodded to acknowledge her, "but she is…enceinte."

Mme Prejean finally showed discomfort. She blushed which made her look even more beautiful, and shifted slightly in her chair. Although Adam wasn't quite sure what the word meant, he decided that it meant she was with child.

"Well," Prejean said, "since it is such glorious news, I am sure Eugenie is fine with its revelation. D'accord?" He smiled indulgently at his wife and made a slight effort to take her gloved hand. She, almost indiscernibly, shifted away from her husband and his hand fell back to rest on the arm of his chair.

But Adam had noticed. He scrutinized Eugenie Prejean carefully as she interested him, intrigued him. Mme Prejean didn't look with child but then it was probably her first one. Marie, who had, with her first husband, Jean, given birth to a child who died before he lived one full day, quickly became full when pregnant with Joseph and had to purchase new dresses almost immediately. She soon confined herself to the house, not wanting to be seen in what she had described as a "grotesque" state.

"So, you can see," Prejean said to Ben Cartwright, Marie's son has less of a claim on the house, on the property, than we. We are both Antionette DeVaille's blood relatives—much closer to her as far as sanguinity goes, than Marie's quarter-blood son."

"Now you listen to me…" Ben Cartwright rose from his chair and loomed menacingly.

"Pa." Adam rose quickly and gripped his father's arm. He was surprised at the hardness of the tendons, how deeply muscled his father's arms were. "Pa, take it easy. He's right. Joe only has a quarter of the DeVaille blood."

Prejean had leaned back but Adam could see fear in his eyes. _He wonders if I've told my father about him,_ Adam thought. And the idea of keeping Arnaud Prejean off balance made him feel powerful. Adam wondered if Prejean would try to speak to him alone to ask if Adam remembered him from that day. There was potency in knowing something about someone, a secret that was held close to the chest like a good poker hand. As for his father, Adam decided he would tell him about Arnaud Prejean as soon as the meeting ended and they were on their way back to the hotel.

Ben Cartwright reluctantly sat back down, smoothing his jacket. He took a deep breath and said, "Be careful what you say, Mr. Prejean. I don't take insults lightly whether they are directed towards me or my sons. If you make it a matter of honor, well, just ask D'Arcy here how I have handled such things in the past."

D'Arcy stood straight and his neck flushed deep red. "Don't think your luck would be better this time, Cartwright." He pulled the cigarette from the holder and tossed the smoldering stub out the window. Then he slowly paced. Adam was aware of D'Arcy behind him. Then he heard the man stand still but he spoke, taking his attention away from whatever D'Arcy may be doing behind his and his father's back. But he felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"I've studied the laws of Louisiana, the Napoleonic Code," Adam said, leaning over slightly and clasping his hands in front of him. "Despite what you believe your claim is, Mr. Prejean, or my brother Joseph's, you and he and your wife are all heirs. The fact that you have married your cousin doesn't strengthen your claim. If you and your wife should have a falling out, the house would have to be divided into three parts. One third is my brother's no matter what you say.

"Now, Mr. Bergeron, please tell me if I am in error, but it would seem that if the Prejeans want to continue living in the house, then they need to either buy out my brother's share—including the value of the furnishing and any collectibles, paintings, whatever there is of value inside, or pay him 'rent', so to speak. If neither of those options are acceptable, then the house should be sold as well as its belongings and the price divided by three, a third of it going to my brother, Joseph."

"Now, just a moment, you upstart, you and your father are both parvenus and have no right to dictate…" Prejean stood up, too upset to sit any longer. "This whole idea of selling the house is only second to the absurd idea that we should pay 'rent' to live in our own house to a….child!"

"He may be a child," Adam said, finally sitting back and crossing his long legs. His scuffed boots, his too-large trousers weren't an issue any more. Finally, the conversation had turned in a direction where he would prevail. "…but he is an heir and my father and I will look after his interests."

"You!" D'Arcy snorted. "You are just a…a…clodhopper! A crude, uneducated cowboy! What do you know about the laws in Louisiana?"

Bergeron cleared his throat. "Actually, M. D'Arcy, young Mr. Cartwright is correct. Either the Prejeans give up their claim to the property, sell their shares of the inheritance to Joseph Cartwright, or buy out his claim. If not, then Mr. Cartwright can petition, and should be granted on his son's behalf, to receive a stipend from the Prejeans for residing on the property."

"Absurd!" Prejean said. He looked straight at Adam and threateningly pointed his finger as he leaned forward. "And you! You may have just started more trouble than you know." He straightened up, adjusted his vest, buttoned his jacket and turned to Eugenie Prejean. She had been carefully watching Adam and now that Adam was aware of her riveting blue eyes, he longed to break their gaze but for some reason, he couldn't take his eyes from her.

"Eugenie! We shall go now. Vite!" Prejean swept up his hat and placed it on his head. Then he held out his bent arm and his wife took it but she still watched the handsome, young man.

"Gentleman," she said and only then did she look at the others but her final gaze was again at Adam. Then she swept out the door on her husband's arm.

"I have nothing more to say," D'Arcy said. "Hopefully this situation will be quickly settled." He picked up his walking stick and his hat and headed to the door but paused and turned. "I suppose though, that should some bad luck, should some accident befall young Joseph Cartwright, well, that would settle the matter in the Prejeans' favor, wouldn't it?"

"You dare to threaten…" Ben Cartwright gripped the arms of his chair while Adam's hand shot out and he held his father arm's again. Ben Cartwright's jaw was clenched and the knuckles on both his hands had gone white."

"Au revoir," D'Arcy said, making a mock bow of deference. Then he, with a great deal of grace, left Bergeron's office.

"I should have killed that man when I had the chance," Ben Cartwright said.

"Pa, he said what he did to upset you."

"I am so sorry, Mr. Cartwright. Please, if there is anything I can do…" M. Bergeron pushed back his chair which slid on casters. He stood.

Ben and Adam stood then. "Actually, there is. Create a petition with the three possible choices: make it clear that the Prejeans can buy my son Joseph's share, sell their shares to Joseph, or pay him a monthly amount for occupying the house. They should be forced to make the choice. I'll pay you for your time; I've saved some money that was earmarked for…for something else."

Adam knew his father was talking about the money that was to send him to college.

"I shall be paid out of the estate, Mr. Cartwright. I will receive my share, I assure you. But this matter may drag on for quite a while, possibly years before there is a resolution."

"Thank you. Just get things started." Ben reached out to shake Bergeron's hand as the lawyer had come out from behind his desk. "I appreciate your assistance."

"It was not only my job, but my pleasure, as well. And you…" Bergeron smiled at Adam and put out his hand. Adam took it and shook the plump, hot hand. "You should consider becoming a lawyer. Believe me, there is always a grievance filed here in New Orleans or a new lawsuit almost every day. The families of New Orleans tend to be inordinately litigious. There is always more than enough work and you have the logical mind being a lawyer requires. Consider it, young man. I should be glad to take you on and teach you the law. Actually, you would probably be able to teach me a few things."

Ben Cartwright smiled proudly and once he and Adam were again on the street and walking back to their hotel, he said, "Thank you, Adam."

"For what, Pa?"

"For coming along with me…and for forgiving me for keeping you from college a while longer."

"It's all right, Pa. Joe can't defend himself and I'll be damned if the Prejeans with the help of D'Arcy are going to steal what's rightfully his."

"What would rightfully have been Marie's," Ben said, almost to himself. But Adam couldn't help but wonder what might have happened had Marie lived to know she was in line for the inheritance of a grand house in New Orleans. But, then, maybe she had known, Adam considered. Maybe that was why Arnaud Prejean had traveled to Nevada.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

My father and I walked along the busy street heading back to our hotel; he was lost in his thoughts so I remained silent and took in the surroundings. I could understand why Marie, my stepmother, told Hoss and Little Joe stories about New Orleans that made the city sound like someplace "once upon a time, long, long ago". It did have a certain élan, a special magic, that is, as long as you didn't see the seamy underbelly and averted your eyes from the barefoot, mixed-race children who ran alongside you begging for money, avoided the waterfront bars with their constant fights and occasional murders. And then there were the brothels and the scantily-clad prostitutes of indeterminate age who stood on dark corners to hide their syphilitic skin while trying to find a customer for their favors.

But this part of New Orleans with its flowerboxes and bright lights, expensive restaurants and fashionable shops, this was beautiful and idyllic. And I was hungry. Our restaurant would be serving supper and my mind was on my stomach. After all the beef, pork and chicken we ate on the Ponderosa, I was looking forward to crawfish gumbo again. It was presented in a large bowl over a clump of white rice and served alongside was a narrow loaf of crusty bread-a baguette, according to the waiter. And although it was probably frowned on, I tore off chunks and sopped up what was left of the sauce, wiping up every drop, it was that good.

The night before, my father had ordered trout with almonds and it wouldn't surprise me if he ordered it again. "You can get trout at home," I'd said. It seemed an odd thing to order in New Orleans with all their exotic dishes. I said it was on par of going to Marrakech and ordering a simple beef steak.

"I know, Adam, but taste this. This trout almost melts in your mouth." He held out his fork which held a large piece of the white flesh.

I'd looked around but no one had noticed my father trying to feed me from his fork like I was a small child—or a lover; the action smacks of intimacy to me. "No, thanks, Pa. Maybe some other time." It made me uncomfortable but I quickly changed the subject. "Now, don't tell Hop Sing that some New Orleans chef can cook a better trout than him."

Mt father chuckled and continued to eat, asking me again if I wanted to taste the entrée and again, I declined.

I decided during the meeting at the lawyer's, that over dinner, I would tell my father about Arnaud Prejean being the man who chased Marie into the yard. My father knew she'd been chased by a man when she fell from the horse - I had told him as much the day she died - but now I wondered if she hadn't been so much chased as followed. There was a subtle distinction and maybe I had read wrong the whole incident.

Finally, we reached the hotel but my father stopped out front. The doorman stood waiting, a gaudily dressed, Creole who apparently, from what I had observed, treated everyone with the same disdain, as if opening the door for others was merely his way of passing the time of day.

"What is it, Pa?"

"Adam, I think I'll…go order your dinner, son. Have them charge it to the room but…here." He dug into his pocket and then counted a few coins out into his palm and handed me a few; they were intended to be left on the table for the waiter.

"Pa, I have money." Here I was old enough to start my life away from my family, away from my father's overwhelming urge to take care of me, and he was giving me money.

"I know, Adam, but you shouldn't have to use your own money." He grabbed my wrist and pressed the coins into my palm. "Take it. Save your money for when you might really need it. I hear that some of those college books are dear."

I took the money from him and slid the coins into my pocket. "Do you want me to order for you?"

"No, I'm not hungry; I'll get something later." Before I could ask him where he was going, he said, "I'm going to send a wire to Hop Sing to let him know we'll be returning home later than we planned."

My idea to tell him about Prejean and Marie over dinner had been thwarted and I wanted to tell my father about Arnaud right then and there, but since we were on the street, I stopped myself. "Maybe, if you can afford it, you should send one to Hoss and Joe."

"Hoss and Joe?" He looked puzzled.

"Yeah. I'm sure they miss you and even though Joe can't read it, just knowing you've addressed a wire with his name on it will make him feel important. And Hoss can read it to him. I'm sure they miss you more now that Joe's mother…" I saw my father's face fall back into lines of grief and pain and so I let my words fade away.

"That's a good idea, Adam." My father smiled and put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Now go enjoy your dinner. I might also take some air – I feel the need to clear my head and the evening's becoming a bit cool – turning out nice. Don't worry; I won't be too long."

I watched him walk away and I suddenly felt such longing for my brothers that I wished I was back home. Would I feel like this if I were back east at school? Would my heart ache for my brothers and the warmth of security of having my family about? And how I longed to hear Hop Sing scolding Hoss for stealing cookies or Joe for not washing his hands. Or scolding me because I read too much.

"Man needs knowledge in many things. That is true. Books, they hold much learning but to live is better teacher."

Hop Sing was right in that. I was being taught more with every passing day.

I was almost finished eating, when my waiter came over to me and held out a silver salver holding an envelope.

"For me?" I asked. The waiter seemed to roll his eyes but it was a subtler expression. It was odd; in this city, all the hired help behaved like they were doing you the favor of performing their tasks, as if they were indulging you. Must be they believed they were descended from French royalty as well.

"You are Mr. Cartwright. Hence it's for you." He practically sneered.

"Yes, but I…" I was going to say that I was Adam Cartwright and that it was probably for my father but instead, I just took it from the tray and watched the waiter turn and walk away. I supposed he resented having to wait on a shabby "farm boy" and I didn't like feeling that way - inferior. I looked around the dining room at all the well-dressed people, all older than I and far more sophisticated, and made up my mind that I was going to learn all the niceties of elite society some day and going to school back east was the first step. As long as I was raised among men who spat tobacco and scratched their balls in public, I would never become sophisticated.

I glanced at the envelope and my name – Adam Cartwright - was written in an elegant, feminine hand; it wasn't for my father, the letter was for me and it had no post mark. Someone had hand-delivered it to the hotel. I shook the envelope so the letter inside would hit the far end and then I tore open the other end. I considered wiping off my dinner knife and using it as a letter opener, something I would have done in any restaurant in Nevada - and because I would have, I knew it wasn't to be done here.

The paper was of a heavy, ivory vellum and I unfolded it and began to read.

 _Dear Adam Cartwright,_

 _I would appreciate it if you would come to my home at seven this evening. I believe that you may have knowledge of my husband and his relationship with your deceased stepmother, Marie DeVaille-DeMarigny, that is relevant to me and my situation._

 _I beg you, please do not disappoint me. The address is 47 Rue Leon._

 _Eugenie Prejean_

I read the letter again and then looked at the large, gilt clock on the far wall of the dining room; I had a little over fifteen minutes to make it to the Prejean home. I quickly left money on the table and headed out to Leon Street. The grand house wasn't far and my father and I had seen it, but only the outside, that morning after breakfast. We had hired one of the ubiquitous carriages that sits street-side. It was driven by a whip-thin man wearing a straw hat, sweat already sliding down his dark cheeks but caught by the bandana he wore loosely about his neck. He wore a white oversized shirt, the collar open to the third button or so, the sleeves rolled to his surprisingly muscled upper arms. I wished I'd dressed as casually as I could feel the sweat trickling down my chest and knew I'd have dark half-moons under the arms of my jacket.

The horse was as thin as its driver but made good time; it seemed the man knew where the Prejean house was. Once there, we sat in the back seat and my father appraised the house. The driver waited for us to get down, I suppose, because he looked at us quizzically and seemed ready to shoot out his hand for the fare and a bit more for the expediency with which we'd arrived.

"We're not getting out," my father said to him. "We just needed to see the house."

The driver shrugged—it was no matter to him, and leaned back in his driver's seat, pulling the brim of his hat down further to shield his eyes. It seemed as if he was going to take a short nap which made sense considering we were paying him for his time.

"What do you think, Adam?"

I had an interest in buildings, in their design and especially the mathematical aspects of construction that went back to the Romans and even beyond. All through time, men have created dwellings, the poor in their hovels or lean-tos, the wealthy in their mansions, royalty in their castles. The Prejean home was lovely but really no different than many others in this district. It, as were other homes, was surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence, an arrow-like tip on the end of each post threatening impalement to any intruder. The elegant, iron gate was higher than the surrounding fence. The garden was filled with plants that only grew in the humid sub-tropical weather, in particular, ferns, palms and tall plants with huge, broad leaves. There were also spots of color, blooms of what I later learned, were daylilies. The house was covered with pink-painted stucco, and glass-paneled double doors faced the street. The windows had louvered shutters that could be closed against a hurricane and across the second floor ran a balcony propped up by the porch surrounding the first floor. I knew that it would keep the inside of the home cooler by providing a defense against the slanting sun. We used basically the same idea in enlarging the Ponderosa ranch house.

"I think it's an expensive piece of real estate," I said, "but I wonder though, if it's worth fighting over. Do you think Joe would want to live here some day?" I waited while my father pondered the question as he took in the house. The street was quiet considering how close it was to the business district.

"Well, Adam, it's not the house so much as it's Joseph's legacy, what he deserves, and I think Marie would want him to have it. She loved this city but she lost the home she shared with…her first husband when she married me. It reverted to the DeMarigny family when we married. I don't want the Prejeans to rob Joe as well of what's rightfully his as the DeMarignys did his mother."

I wish I had known that morning that Arnaud Prejean was the man who had met with Marie on the Ponderosa as I could have told my father while we sat looking at the property, but it was probably best I didn't, now that I consider. The meeting in the lawyer's office would have more than likely deteriorated into a common brawl and someone could have ended up tossed from the window to the street below, maybe even me.

Darkness was falling as I left the hotel and workers were lighting the gas streetlights. As I hurried to Leon Street, I realized my father wouldn't know where I was; I should have left a note at the desk. I considered going back but Madame Prejean had asked me to be there at 7:00 and as she had entreated, I didn't want to disappoint her. I knew that she had no interest in me as a man, probably didn't even consider me a man - I know my father didn't and Hop Sing still scolded me the same as he always had when I displeased him. But I wanted to be considered grown—just shows how immature I really was. And in my active imagination, I imagined what it would be like to kiss Eugenie Prejean, to have her at my mercy as I thrilled her with my kisses on her lovely neck and shoulders.

I used the door knocker - a brass hand - and waited until one of the two doors was opened and an old, wizened woman wearing a blue high-necked dress and a white apron opened the door. Lamplight lit the room behind her and I could see a palm in a large Majolica pot behind her in the foyer.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Adam Cartwright for Madame Prejean."

She put out her hand but not as a greeting. I must have looked more confused than I felt because she said, "Your card?"

I felt five years old again. "Oh…I don't have any…Mrs., I mean Madame Prejean asked me here." The door closed on my face. I wondered if I should leave, if I had basically been dismissed, and tried to make out what was happening behind the beveled glass of the door panes but it was just a merging of light and color until I saw movement and the old woman opened the door again.

"Come in, please." She bowed her head slightly and again, put out her hand.

"I don't have…" She shook her head, just slightly, and I wondered if she had a palsy but a small smile played across her thin lips. She turned and I stepped inside and waited while she closed the door behind us. The woman was almost bent double, a large hump at the base of her neck that seemed to twist her down some way, but she shuffled along and I followed her until she motioned me into a large room and left. Madame Prejean rose from an over-stuffed rose damasked chair and smiling gently, put out her small hand. I took it and wondered if I was supposed to kiss it. I had read about such things in books but it seemed silly at the time and what if she laughed at me? But what if I didn't do it and I was seen as crude? She would still laugh at me. But I didn't have to worry long because Eugenie Prejean took her hand away and with it, elegantly motioned for me to sit. I sat awkwardly on the edge of a brocade settee, finally remembering to pull off my hat when inside; that was what the housekeeper had wanted the second time – my hat. No wonder she had smiled, probably thinking what an ignorant and foolish "boy" I was – a rube. And my face flushed with embarrassment at the thought.

The room was airy, the large windows open and the evening air danced through. The furniture was obviously old and at one time, expensive. One could tell just by the gleaming wood and the elegant upholstery. The rugs had seen many feet tread over them and the table tops and mantle held silver frames with pictures of proud family members along with expensive figurines and elegant vases filled with flowers. A portrait of Eugenie Prejean took up a large space above the fireplace. The whole room seemed full of flowers and Eugenie Prejean seemed the loveliest blossom of all.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Cartwright." She smiled. "May I call you, Adam?"

"Of course, Mrs. Prejean. Please do."

"Then you must call me, Eugenie. I am not much older than you, I imagine. How old are you,…Adam?"

"17."

"17. I was married a year by then." She spoke more to herself and then she turned her eyes back to me. "I'm only 22, Adam. A mere five years older than you and yet…so much has happened to me that I feel an old woman." She sighed and then smiled. "May I offer you something? Coffee? Tea? Perhaps a small brandy."

"No. But thank you. I just finished supper…" My hands were sweaty and I wanted to wipe them on my trousers but that would have been too vulgar an action. And I was blathering on about having eaten and used "supper" instead of "dinner", the more elegant term.

Silence fell between us and I became more anxious, more uncertain how to behave. I felt burdened to say something so I did. "If I may ask, how do you keep the insects out with the windows open like that? I mean the mosquitoes and such?" She laughed as if delighted but I suddenly felt stupid. What a goddamn stupid question to ask such a divine creature as Eugenie Prejean. What insect would dare to bite her anyway? I felt my face grow hot once more.

"Why scented geraniums, citronella grass, peppermint and lantanas planted about the doors and windows, in hanging pots or in window boxes. Have you not heard of such plants?"

"No, I mean yes, I have, but…I…it was a foolish question." I looked down and realized my boots wanted polishing; I should have taken care of it that morning. I wondered if she noticed.

"Not at all," she said, still smiling, but maybe she was just indulging an awkward, clumsy, poorly-dressed boy from the wilds of Nevada. And I had worn the same suit of clothes all day; I'm sure I looked rumpled and I'm sure I smelled. "It just shows that you are clever and always weighing matters; I noticed that this morning…along with your eyes. You have discerning eyes, Adam, and that's why I asked you here." She waited and I heard the mantle clock ticking. It was a large, white china clock, painted with roses. "I need to know…have you seen my husband before this morning? Did he visit your late stepmother, Marie DeVaille-DeMarigny on the Ponderosa? Tell me…please."

"Madame Prejean…I don't think…"

"Eugenie," she said as she rose and moved to me. "Call me Eugenie. And Adam, I saw it in your face this morning. You recognized Arnaud, didn't you? He was visiting your stepmother on your ranch, wasn't he? I had suspected when he was gone for so long and returned so upset, so pensive…brooding. He, of course, would not share with me. I have to ferret out everything myself and then I am a shrew, une femme agaçante."

I said nothing, only looked down at the pattern in the worn carpet; some places were almost threadbare and I could almost see the honey-colored, wood floor boards underneath.

"I would imagine she must have turned him away, spurned him, but I think he…" Her voice trailed away and I looked up to see her standing in the middle of the room, looking vacantly out an open window to the small, paved courtyard beyond, her hands like limp birds. Her face was so lovely. She was probably the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She resembled the porcelain figurines that sat about the room and I imagine that she could as easily be broken – be shattered.

"Madame…Eugenie, I don't think it's my place to say anything. You should ask your husband about where he's been and who he saw-not me. Now, if you'll excuse me…." I stood and was about to turn and leave when she touched my arm. I looked at her, at her imploring blue eyes and my heart seemed to skip a beat. I was smitten. I think I would have done anything for Eugenie Prejean at that moment; she merely needed to ask.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Please, Adam. You don't understand. Won't you stay a moment longer and let me explain why I can't ask Arnaud about Nevada?"

Adam paused, unsure of what to do. He should never have come to the Prejean home alone - never. His mind spun – she could tell a lie about him, say he had tried to have his way with her, she could make any type of accusation to have him jailed and not be able to attend any more meetings with the lawyer. He had been a fool. A damned fool.

But surely, Adam considered, she wouldn't do such a thing, not Eugenie with her bluebell-colored eyes and her angelic face. Not this woman who was so warm and gentle with him, not she. But Adam knew he was in over his head; he _was_ just a rube, some youthful yahoo from the wilds of Nevada who didn't know the ways of women or the world.

Eugenie took Adam's hand and gently pulled him back down to the settee where she sat as well, watching his face as she began to speak.

"My husband has never loved me; I discovered that sad fact a few weeks after my wedding – and it broke my heart."

"I can't believe that. I'm sure he must love you very much. I don't know how he couldn't – how any man couldn't."

She smiled at the beautiful young man facing her and could visualize him as a man, his jaw more squared, his shoulders even broader, his hips narrower. Right now, he seemed all arms and legs and ears and teeth, but soon, soon his voice would become deeper and more resonant; he would be most desirable. How she wished she were younger and free of marriage again; she would have enjoyed coyly maneuvering the handsome Adam into kissing her. It was his mouth; sensual with a gentle curve of the upper lip and a lush, full, lower lip. How tender he is, Eugenie thought. We would have learned the ways of love together, he and I. But Eugenie quickly brought herself back to the present moment.

"You're very kind," she said, "but had I known that my husband was in love with another woman, I would never have married him. There were others who courted me but none were as handsome, as charming as Arnaud. Unfortunately, I didn't know his true feelings – men can be so deceitful - and found out far too late to change what had been done." She waited but Adam said nothing. "The Prejeans were on the verge of poverty; I didn't know that either. They had the name and the family background but that was in France. My father, he was wealthy and Arnaud received quite the dowry – a ridiculous amount of money - and within three years not only gambled it away, but bought many of the expensive baubles Marie DeMarigny flaunted in public while I wore only those few jewels my husband hadn't yet sold. As for what your stepmother had over him, I don't know but if she lay down and lifted her skirts for his pleasure, I wouldn't be surprised."

"Madame Prejean, Marie DeMarigny was married to my father and she is the mother of my youngest brother; please don't impugn her reputation. I know that there were rumors in New Orleans about my stepmother, about the birth of her child that died and its paternity, questions about who the real father was, but my father told me that's all they were - rumors. Apparently, my stepmother explained it all to my father and he later told me about the reason Jean DeMarigny left New Orleans and his wife. Jean worked for us and died without knowing that the man in her bed, the man Jean, found in his bed next to his sleeping wife, was contrived by Jean's mother to break them apart, to end the marriage. That's what my father told me and I believe him.

"If your husband was Marie's…" Adam couldn't bring himself to say the word, "lover." "If your husband loved Marie and she him, it was over for her once she married my father. I'm sure of it."

"How can you be so sure, Adam? How do you know what's in the heart of another? Did she unburden herself to you as I am doing? Did she trust you to keep her secret?" She saw Adam drop his eyes. "Of course not. And perhaps your father, in an effort to spare you, told you an untruth. It is possible, isn't it?"

"Why would you need to know about your husband and whether or not he visited my stepmother? What purpose would it serve you? Marie Cartwright is dead"

Eugenie rose from the settee and Adam could hear the rustling of her petticoats. She had her back to him and he admired her narrow waist and rounded hips; the coming child hadn't yet ruined her girlish shape. Then she turned slightly and he could see her elegant profile.

"Do you know what I've been thinking since the first time I saw you, Adam?" He shook his head and waited. "A phrase in Samuel about David and Goliath. 'When the Philistine looked and saw David, he disdained him for he was but a youth with a handsome appearance.' My husband has dismissed you, Adam, because you are young. So have the others, but not I. The knowledge you have is powerful, Adam, and others may disdain you. But you can rip apart the whole web of lies and deceit that have been woven around this whole thing." She turned to face him. "I am certain that the man in Marie's bed that night was my husband, that he and Edoard D'Arcy, that slimy snake, working with Jean's mother, arranged it. They knew that Jean would have to leave Marie for honor's sake if nothing else since.

"Everyone in New Orleans, everyone in society, knew that Arnaud and Marie had been lovers at one time, were going to marry. That is until Jean DeMarigny returned from Canada, immensely wealthy from his fur business. Then Marie spurned Arnaud to marry Jean; money was all she cared about anyway. I, being so much younger, so very naïve, knew nothing of their scandalous behaviors, and when Arnaud began courting me, well, I quickly fell in love with my handsome cousin. And once married, together we moved into this home that we believed would be ours one day, that we would inherit. And now your father wants to take it away, to turn us out on the street."

"But I still don't understand…." Adam couldn't see the connection between Arnaud and Marie and why that might help Eugenie.

"Listen to me, Adam." Eugenie's skirts swished over the floor like a heavy sigh as she moved to him, reached down and took his hands. She noticed they were rough and calloused but she found that attractive. She glanced at them and noted the broad heels and the long, elegant fingers. "You have wonderful hands," she murmured. "A man's hands. Any woman would be delighted to feel them on her flesh." She looked at the young man and was again stricken by his beauty, at his youth and the expanse of his future. "You will be a magnificent man one day – and the woman who knows you then, who you will love, I envy her." Then she brought herself back to the moment as Adam made a small effort to pull his hands away from her grasp, but Eugenie, noting the young man's rising excitement held them closer and placed her hands holding his, close to her heaving bosom. "You see, Adam, I believe my husband went to Nevada to beg Marie to come back with him, to leave your father and marry him, that is, once he is rid of me."

"Why would he…."

"Because she has the better claim on the house and what's inside—all these treasures. You see, I am a second cousin, not a first cousin as Arnaud and Marie were. Besides, my husband does not love me as I said – never has – and I believe Arnaud went to see your stepmother to convince her to return with him and together, they would rid themselves of me. They loved each other still, of that I'm sure, but I believe they loved riches even more. Of course, I don't have anything to back it up but intuition, but I think you do, Adam. I can see it in your eyes, your face. You know something important and are keeping it to yourself, keeping a secret to protect your father's heart and perhaps, mine as well. But I need to know. If I can have you state what you saw when we are…"

Adam brusquely pulled his hands away. Eugenie Prejean was beautiful and he was thrilled that she complimented him and gave the impression she desired him, but something was wrong—his gut told him. He thought of his father and Arnaud and all the other men he had read about in his books or in the Bible who had been seduced by beauty, something so transient. And Adam's logical mind took over; he wasn't going to allow Eugenie Prejean to manipulate him, no matter how enthralled by her he was. No matter how she excited him, roused him, he wouldn't be used. "You don't know what I saw or if I saw anything at all. Now, if you'll excuse me." Adam picked his Stetson off the settee and put it on, tipped it slightly, and headed for the door.

"Please, Adam, please!' Eugenie's voice broke into a sob. Adam turned. Her face was pale and tears began to roll down her cheeks. A woman's tears. Adam knew what weapons they could be. "If I know that Arnaud was unfaithful, I might be able divorce him. I am not one of those women who can live her life with a man she abhors and find small happiness with lovers. That may have worked in France for all my predecessors, but I will not live that way! Help me—please. Just tell me, was Arnaud there?"

"Yes, he was there. Now you know and tonight, my father will be the second person I tell. Goodnight, Madame Prejean."

~0~

He told himself, as he lay on the floor, his arms bound at the wrists behind him in the unknown room, that he was stupid, that he should have paid more attention. But as Adam had started walking back to the hotel, his mind was swirling; how was he going to tell his father about his deceased wife, about Arnaud Prejean and what Eugenie Prejean had told him about Marie and her husband having been lovers, having a past together? And then, what would his father do? Would he confront Arnaud? Would he challenge Prejean to a duel? Arnaud was younger and perhaps a better shot or swordsman. What then? Would he have to take his father's body home to Nevada to be buried next to his wife? So, when the two men stepped in his way, Adam was unprepared; he hadn't anticipated anything like this.

"I'd like to pass," Adam said as the men blocked his way. He gauged the two men. One was a tall, dark-skinned Creole and the other was a bit shorter and spoke with a French inflection to his words; he was broad-chested and smelled of cheap whiskey. His eyes were small under heavy brows.

"Did you hear that, Suwannee? This upstart here wants to pass. Think we should let 'im?" The dark man laughed. The street was basically empty except for a man who stepped off the sidewalk to walk around the three men, glancing nervously at them while moving on. Perhaps they were accosting men on the street, hoping to rob them, Adam considered.

"That depends on who he is. You Adam Cartwright?"

Adam felt his stomach knot – his heart thudded. He looked at the two big men and wondered how he should answer. Bluffing might work – but then again it might not. Adam didn't want to seem afraid, but he was. He gathered himself.

"I don't see how it's any of your concern who I am…now, let me pass?"

"Nah, I don' think so." Suwannee grinned broadly, never taking his eyes off Adam. "We got orders, ain't we, Rager? Boy about 16, thinks he be somethin' special. I think we gots the right boy here."

"I think so too. Now what was it we're s'posed to do?" Rager made a show of thinking, tapping his chin as if trying to remember what he allegedly forgot.

Adam could hear his pulse in his ears. He needed to get back to the hotel, to pass the two men. He knew he could make a good show of himself if his opponent was equal to him or even a bit larger, but these were big men who looked as if they worked on the docks unloading freight. They probably did, Adam concluded. He couldn't take them both. Probably not even one.

"Look, I have some money…" Adam dug in his pocket and pulled out the silver coins. But the men laughed.

"We don' be interested no money from you."

"Well, then…" Adam slipped the coins back in his pocket. He felt a chill run down his spine. "If you'll excuse me…." Adam tried to step into the street to pass the men but as he did, Suwanee grabbed his jacket and jerked him back with one hand. He breathed heavily in Adam's face as he said, "I don' 'member givin' no permission for you passin'. Don' you like our company/"

"Look, I don't want any trouble…" Adam grabbed the man's big hand and tried to pry the fingers away but Suwanee then grabbed him with the other hand as well.

"Bad manners. Dis boy here, he don' have no good manners. S'pose you and me, we teach him some. How you think he learn best?"

"Now, my daddy," Rager said as he grinned closer to Adam's face, "he taught me with a strap across my back. I done learned my manners real good that way. How 'bout yourn's, Suwannee?"

"My papa, he use the back o' his big han' to teach me time for speakin' and time for shuttin' up. Dis boy here, he don' know when to shut that fancy mouth. Mouth like a pretty girl. Be shame to split those lips. Maybe we hit him everwhere but dere." And both men laughed.

Adam knew he was going to be beaten but made up his mind that if he was going down, he was going to put up a good show and go down fighting. That was his youth speaking; he never stood a chance, was never even able to throw a punch. The two men pulled him behind a building and in the dirty alleyway, took turns punching him until Adam wished they would just finish him off with a well-placed bullet. They stopped only when Adam lay crumpled in the filth that had been tossed from windows and vomited his expensive dinner in the dirt. The two men then dragged him to a waiting buggy, shoved him onto the back seat, bound his wrists, and drove him somewhere, Adam had no idea where. Then, once inside and the door secured, they dropped him like a shapeless sack of potatoes on the hard floor of a semi-dark room. It could have been a crypt for all Adam knew and for all he cared. He had never hurt so much before in his life and pain raged through every part of his body. And surprisingly, he found that tears were flowing from his swollen eyes. He never expected that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

My head throbbed and my neck felt as if someone had tried to twist my head off it. My ribs hurt, my groin ached and my back felt as if a load of lumber had fallen on it. My eyes were only slits; I knew there was a light on but I couldn't open my eyes all the way. My jaw hurt too, like the time I had chewed too much candy as a kid. Inger, Hoss' mother had bought me a bag of hard caramels, and told me not to eat too many but I went and hid behind the wagon and ate the whole bag. Chewing all of them made my jaw so sore I couldn't eat without pain for the next few days, could barely open my mouth.

I'd been in fights before but nothing like this. When I was younger, Hoss and Little Joe would take me on together and I'd wrestle them both and win, pinning Hoss while Joe clung to my neck, hanging on my back. But that was just from boredom and high spirits, not from any hostility.

And I'd gotten into fist fights with the Bonner brothers and Carl Reagan many times growing up but we always fought fairly. Well, Carl sometimes used dirty tricks but then I'd give it right back to him worse; he never could beat me but I sometimes came home with a black eye or a bruised jaw or a split knuckle. Then my father would be all over me for fighting, for acting like a vulgar, common hooligan. But I'd never fought an adult man before and against two men, I knew I didn't stand a chance. It was the worst feeling, knowing they were going to hurt me and there was nothing I could do to stop them, especially since the first blow was to my belly; it knocked my breath out and I couldn't get it back; I was drowning in an ocean of air. After that, they took turns punching and pummeling me and I just had to take it.

Now I lay on that cool floor with my eyes closed and listened to the slap of playing cards and the voices of Rager and Suwanee as they talked about women and money and what "unpleasant" things they would do when they were paid, at least unpleasant for someone else. I have to admit that listening to their proposed adventures was a small education in itself. Every so often, my mind would float out somewhere and then come back to the pain. I had no idea what time it was or even if it was the next day but no matter what, I knew my father would be worried about me and looking for me. Would he think of going to the Prejeans'? And if he did, what would Eugenie Prejean tell him? And even if she told him that I had confirmed her suspicion that her husband had gone to see Marie, that Arnaud had visited the Ponderosa, none of that still wouldn't tell him where I was?

I must have slipped into sleep, because I woke feeling someone turn me onto my stomach, my hands still tied behind my back. Rager cursed as he struggled to remove one of the cufflinks. I knew they were just brass but maybe he was too stupid to recognize it. I must have groaned because Rager spat out for me to shut my "goddamn mouth". I found I had slightly wet myself at some point but wanted to move away from the damp spot on the floor. It was all I could do to shift myself to another position but the deep sounds of my misery escaped without my effort. I felt like some wounded animal and if I could have, I would have crawled away to lick my wounds.

"Sounds that boy be makin' prove we done a good goddamn job on him!" That was Suwannee. I recognized his voice and manner of speaking, but then I was always good with voices, not that it did me any good while I was lying on that hard floor.

I had no idea how long I'd been there but I must have fallen asleep again because I had trouble waking up when I was hauled to my feet. One eye was completely shut; my cheek had swollen up to such a degree that it pushed my eye closed. I could see fairly well out of the other but all I wanted was to lie back down. My head felt like it had been shoved into a wall and my sides hurt maybe even more than my kidneys where they'd punched me a few times; every time I took a breath, my ribs ached so I had to breathe shallowly. My arms ached from having been tied behind my back for so long and having slept with them in that position. My fingers were numb and I wished the rest of me had followed suit.

Suwannee held me upright while Rager talked. His breath reeked of stale cigar and whiskey – it made me sick; I swallowed deeply to keep the rising gorge down but it would have served him right if I'd spewed vomit all over him.

"Now, we're gonna take you back to your daddy, boy. And he's lucky you're still in one piece. Sent him one of your cufflinks but hought maybe we'd have to send 'im one of your ears, or a finger or…somethin' else." Rager and Suwannee laughed and their little castration joke and I wished more than anything I could swing out and smash my fist into their ugly, laughing faces.

Instead, I let them pull me as I stumbled to a buggy and they pushed me in the back with orders to lie down. "Don't raise your head, boy, or say a word or Suwannee here is gonna blow it off. You understand?"

I nodded and muttered something that was supposed to be "yes." It didn't really sound like it though but I guess they understood. I lay on the seat, trying desperately to find a position that gave me some comfort, that eased my bodily misery but couldn't. It didn't matter though because within a few minutes, the buggy stopped and I was pulled out and helped to stand. My wrists were unbound and my hands began to tingle and then ache desperately as the blood rushed back into them at full force. I rubbed my wrists one at a time waiting for the ache to subside.

"Now you listen to me and listen good." Rager leaned in as if he was going to whisper in my ear. It struck me as odd but my ears were ringing with a high-pitched whine and so I slightly shook my head and the ground tilted about me. I had heard of earthquakes in California and I briefly wondered if New Orleans had earthquakes.

"Hey!" He grabbed my lapels and pulled me up again as my knees began to buckle. "You're two streets away from your hotel. You're gonna have to walk back. Just go two streets north. Understand?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. "Two streets north," I tried to say. But Rager seemed to understand me.

"That's right." Rager released me and I stood unsteadily, struggling to keep my feet under me, watching as they climbed back in the buggy and drove off. I kept repeating over and over, "Two streets north. Two streets north." But I looked around and had no idea what was north. It was dark and my brain tried to work but my thinking was dulled by the headache that pounded inside my skull. The moon. It rose in what direction? Did it rise in the east and set in the west like the sun? I didn't know what time it was and searched the sky, stumbling into the street to see between the buildings but there was no moon above. How much time had passed since I'd been taken? I didn't know. Then I saw a glimmer on the horizon. It had to be the sun which meant I'd been held all night.

I tried to think clearly but it was like struggling through deep snow—a immense effort to make any progress. If I kept the sunrise on my right, I'd be heading north, I'd find the hotel and my father. I knew that. All I wanted was to get back to him and our room. I needed desperately to lie down but I kept going—one foot in front of the other. I passed a few people, laborers who were heading out to work, fishermen who were headed for their boats; they passed disinterestedly as I lurched past them.

I saw the hotel and just when I thought it would all soon be over, I tripped over my own feet and tumbled to the cobblestones. I wanted to cry but managed to rise to my knees and then my feet again. I stepped into the hotel lobby where the desk clerk looked up from the early edition newspaper and seeing me, jumped up, the paper falling to the ground, and hurried around the desk.

"Get out of here, you goddamn drunk!" He grabbed me up by the front of my jacket and began to jerk me towards the door. "You drunkards need to be locked up!"

I tried to tell him my name but my tongue was too thick and dry. I managed something but it was unintelligible. And then I felt strong hands on me, almost an embrace, and a familiar voice: "Get your hands off him! He's my son I've been waiting for!" A wave of relief, I guess you'd call it, washed over me and I knew I was safe. So I gave up my efforts and stopped struggling; my father was there.

~0~

I woke and the sunlight shot through my eyes like knives. I also felt myself being partially lifted and held. I tried to move away and think I mumbled to let me be. I know I tried to push off the hands.

"It's all right, Adam, it's all right." It was my father and I felt his hand on my head, holding it upright. I tried to talk, to tell him where I had been and what had happened, but he said to be quiet, that the doctor was almost finished binding my ribs. Then he raised me up higher and a glass was shoved between my lips. I pulled my head back to refuse - although I was thirsty, I wanted first to tell him about Marie and Arnaud Prejean and that his Eugenie Prejean knew they had been lovers, that it had been Arnaud who had followed Marie, chased Marie to her death-but my father asked me to please drink. I took one sip and recognized the acrid, bitter taste of laudanum. I finished the whole glass and croaked for more water and gripping my father's wrist, I swallowed another glass of the best-tasting water I'd ever had.

They lay me back down and I heard the doctor say I had to rest. Then a cool cloth was placed on my forehead and I didn't want to talk anymore about anything. My body became lighter, airy and it seemed to float above the pain which ebbed away and the sunlight through my eyelids faded; I blessedly slipped into darkness and peace. My last thought before my opium-induced slumber was that this must be what dying felt like, rising above the world and its sufferings, losing your grasp on what was real and not caring—not caring at all.

Two days went by before I came back to myself. An exchange of angry voices woke me and I managed to open my eyes enough to see my father and another well-dressed man arguing. It took me a few seconds to figure out where I was and when I tried to move, a sharp pain sliced through my back and when I gasped, my ribs felt as if they were being ripped from my chest cavity.

"Adam, lie still. Do you need anything?" My father had rushed to hover over me.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, no. And then I wished I hadn't as the motion nauseated me.

"Do you, see!" I heard my father say to the other person. "He's in no condition to be questioned! I've given you the letter that came with the cufflink and I did exactly as you wanted. And you're lucky it all turned out well and Adam's back here—alive."

"Does that not convince you that I know what I'm about. Trust me, Mr. Cartwright; I have your sons' interests at heart-both of them. But I do need to talk to Adam."

"I told you I'm sure D'Arcy is behind it all. Go arrest him! He's the one who had my son beaten like this, almost killing him. He and Prejean are in this together, I know it! Who else would benefit from my discharging Joseph's claim on the DeVaille house? Why won't you arrest them? Look at what they've done-almost killed an innocent boy!"

"Mr. Cartwright, you really must control yourself." The voice was calm and even. It was a voice of authority but at the moment, it sounded indulgent. "Becoming emotional has never resolved anything."

"Don't tell me, Charpentier, to be calm!"

"That is _Detective_ Charpentier, Mr. Cartwright, and I will tell you again to calm yourself. Your passions are clouding your thinking."

I could see my father's face even without opening my eyes. His brow would be furrowed, his mouth set firmly as he tried to control himself. I had seen that expression many times, usually when I had done something he saw as wrong and was patiently letting me justify my actions before he took me and his razor strop out to the barn.

"I'm telling you who's guilty. Why won't you listen to me? Look at my boy! Do you think it was a random beating?"

"He is hardly a boy and had there been only one attacker, I believe he would have made a good show of himself; that is why I am certain there was more than one man involved in this abduction. And I have already talked to Monsieur D'Arcy and despite what you may think, he was in his establishment, La Palais de Chance, the whole night. His employees…"

"His employees! Don't you think they'd lie for him? Hell, I bet the men were…"

"If you would stop interrupting and listen, Mr. Cartwright, I could finish. His employees and many patrons saw D'Arcy and will swear he was there until closing—and after. It seems that while the Palais is cleaned at night, D'Arcy and his head cashier count the day's proceeds."

"What does that prove? Just that he himself didn't half-kill my son! It doesn't mean…."

"Mr. Cartwright, I am well aware that because Mr. D'Arcy's whereabouts can be accounted for, it does not preclude his hiring of thugs to beat your son. The fact that you were asked to release any claim to the property for your son Adam's safe return means that it must have something to do with the Prejeans. D'Arcy openly admits that he would help his friend in any way he could - short of murder, he added. He also informed me that Arnaud Prejean has many friends at the Palais with whom the inheritance matter was openly discussed, Prejean bemoaning the fact that he and his young wife and future child, were in danger of being turned-out of their home for the sake of Marie DeVaille's five-year-old child. It is possible, you know, that it was one of Prejean's friends – he has many influential friends, some who own waterfront businesses or ships. Or perhaps it was someone who wanted to secure a future favor from Arnaud Prejean. I must look into every possibility.

"And just as D'Arcy can be accounted for that night, so can Arnaud Prejean; he was at the gaming establishment until closing, just about the last one to leave, the faro dealer stated. And Eugenie Prejean says that her husband came home around 3:00 in the morning. She says that he woke her to claim his marital right.

"But I do have some suspicions about the veracity of her statement. When I questioned the Prejeans, Madame Prejean appeared, well, I watched her closely which, since she is so lovely, was mixing business with pleasure. But my instinct told me that she was uncomfortable for a reason other than my watching her. After all, a woman as beautiful as she must be habituated to men staring at her. I feel she is keeping something back, something she did not care to reveal while her husband was present; I hope to speak with her alone this afternoon. Perhaps I will hear something helpful. Perhaps not.

"But as I said, I need to talk to your son – and the sooner, the better. He may be able to clarify some facts and even be able to help identify his attackers. Perhaps he heard a name or observed some eccentric behavior or identifiable mark on one of the men-a scar or birthmark, maybe a tattoo if they were sailors. So, you can understand, can you not?"

"Yes, but another time would be better. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Perhaps, this afternoon after he has slept away the morning, Mr. Cartwright. After I have again visited the Prejeans."

I heard receding footsteps and the opening of the door. He had stopped and I imagined Detective Charpentier turned and faced my father as he spoke. "And do not attempt this investigation on your own, Mr. Cartwright. You are in New Orleans, a singular city at best, and the people here are…how shall I say…jealous; we guard what is ours and do not take to outsiders inserting themselves into our business. You will not find much cooperation. Bon jour, monsieur."

And the door resoundingly shut.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"So," Detective Charpentier said as he stood at the foot of the bed, "there were two men, no? Just as I thought. Did you hear their names?"

I was sitting upright in bed against the headboard. If I slouched any, my ribs hurt, so I made sure to sit ramrod straight. "Yes. One was called Rager and the other was Suwannee. He was the dark-skinned Creole. Sounded like he came from the islands."

I watched as the detective wrote in a small notebook. Then he said in a patronizing tone. "And how would you know if this Suwanee had come from 'the islands'?"

"From my previous visit to New Orleans as a boy. Miss Linda Lawrence explained the various accents to me and their origins; she was quite the snob and judged everyone by the way they spoke, especially me. I learned quite a bit from her."

"I see," the detective said. "I will accept that."

"Oh, thank you," I said with a touch of sarcasm which the detective ignored.

"And did the men have any distinctive markings? A scar or such by which either could be identified?"

"Just look for two men with badly bruised fists."

Detective Charpentier chuckled but my father didn't think I was amusing; he told me to take things seriously. Didn't I know how badly I'd been hurt? I could've been killed.

"Mr. Cartwright," Detective Charpentier said, "if you wouldn't mind, I would like to question your son alone."

I was impressed with Detective Charpentier. He was a bit haughty, true, but tall, nice looking – maybe even handsome - and exceptionally well-dressed. In another age, he might even have been called a dandy. I wondered how he had risen through the ranks to become a detective. Had he started out as a simple constable who policed the waterfront, arresting drunken sailors, dragging them to the lock-up and striking them with a cudgel if they become too disorderly? Or had he been one of those who, when they came upon a sodden man lying in his own piss on the docks, rolled him into the harbor and then walked on?

But despite how Charpentier had risen to the position of detective, he seemed clever and effective as I had heard most of his conversation with my father on his earlier visit. And he was beautifully garbed, as I said. I paid close attention trying to discern what it was that gave him a certain grace as his slender figure moved about, his clothing unwrinkled and crisp; if he was sweating from the heat, it didn't show.

"He's my son; I think I should stay." My father stood determined.

"Pa," I said, "It's okay. I don't mind." I wanted to talk to Detective Charpentier alone; I was pretty sure I knew exactly what he had learned from Mrs. Prejean, what he wanted to discuss with me and I still was unsure just how I was going to tell my father about Arnaud and Marie.

"Adam I don't….I mean I know you feel well enough to talk and you're able to sit up and really talk, but."

"The resiliency of youth," Detective Charpentier said, "and I assure you, sir, I won't trouble your son for long. You have my word."

My father glanced at both of us. Then, in a defeated tone, he said, "I'm going down to get a paper. I'll read in the lobby for no more than a half-hour. That's it, Detective, 30 minutes." And as if to punctuate his statement, my father pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He slipped it back into his watch pocket and with one last look at me, left the room.

The detective and I stared at one another. He began.

"Well, Adam…I may call you Adam, yes?" I nodded. "I am glad to see you are so much better than yesterday. I had come by then and you were still in, what your father said, was a drug-induced sleep. This morning you weren't yet awake, but now you are so much better, so much more alert that even just a few hours ago." He smiled but it was a forced, polite smile.

"I felt like hell this morning and I feel like hell now. That's not much of a change."

The detective smiled and hung his hat on a bedpost. Then he pulled one of the chairs, a small wooden chair from the writing desk, to my bedside and sat. I had eaten lunch earlier, part of it, anyway, and the tray and dishes still sat on the nightstand.

"Perhaps you would like to finish your lunch?"

"No, I've had enough…thank you. Did Mrs. Prejean tell you about my stepmother and her husband?" I couldn't see us dancing around the subject and I was certain I wasn't telling him something he didn't already know. I also wanted to cut the visit as short as possible.

Charpentier sat up straighter and crossed one leg over the other, his hands folded in his lap, holding his small notebook and pencil.

"Yes, she did. She also told me that you confirmed her suspicions about the reason of her husband's trip – wanting to see your stepmother. Your father, he does not know about them, correct?"

"Not yet. He knows that a man chased my stepmother into our front yard where she had her accident, where the horse rolled over on her. I told him that because I saw it, but the man, he rode away. Until that meeting with the Prejeans at the lawyer's, I had no idea who the man was. I wanted to tell my father right away but then, well, he deeply loved my stepmother, was broken-hearted when she died and I was afraid my father might…"

"Do something…rash, perhaps?"

"Yes."

"You had witnessed the trysts between your stepmother and Arnaud Prejean? Mrs. Prejean stated they must have…met."

"Only once. I assumed there was more than one time since she went out riding alone every afternoon. But I could be wrong."

"I see. And you kept this from your father." It was a statement, not a question, a confirmation.

"I told you already, yes, I kept it from him."

"You spied on your stepmother."

"Only that once and I wasn't spying. I was just checking out voices, two voices, a man's and a woman's. I didn't know it was my stepmother until I got close enough to see the two people. It was a coincidence – I didn't follow her out; I was heading home, heard voices and went to investigate. I saw them. After that, since she left for her 'ride' at the same time each afternoon, I only assume she was meeting with Arnaud Prejean but I don't really know."

"I see. Did you hear what they were saying?"

"No. I wasn't that close." I paused, weighing what I should say. "But I waited a few seconds only – maybe a half minute or so – out of curiosity and saw my stepmother kiss the man, Arnaud Prejean, willingly. And I wish I'd never seen that kiss. But it's too late now. Then, when I found out who the man was, like I said, I was waiting for the right time to tell my father."

"Why haven't you told him yet?"

"I told you. I don't know how my father would react, what he would do and right now, I can't stop him, go along with him to help him, and…I just don't…it would only hurt him all over again. And what has that to do with anything anyway and why do you keep asking me the same questions over and over?"

"To see if you answer the same way over and over and if you are being truthful or if you are motivated by revenge perhaps, to lie. But it is important to know thyself, Adam, for a man to know what motivates him, why he does what he does. A man should always be honest with himself and I need to know if I can trust your answers or not. If you are honest with yourself, you will be honest with me."

" 'To thine own self be true and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' Is that it? "

"Ah, yes. The Englishman. A playwright, correct?" He smiled wryly and this time I chuckled at his intentional understatement, well, until my ribs convinced me nothing was that funny. "Yes, Adam. That is the basic idea."

"Well, I think it's more important for me to know if I can trust you. How do I know you're not in D'Arcy's or Prejean's hip pocket?"

He laughed. "Because, my dear boy, Prejean does not have a pot in which to piss, as they say, so much as any money to bribe me and Edoard D'Arcy, well, I believe he owns a judge."

"Oh, so you might be able to be bought if the price was high enough. Is that it?"

"Peaut-ȇtre. Perhaps." Detective Charpentier smiled and I did as well. At least he was truthful. I decided I would be the same.

"All right. In the beginning, I hoped that if I could prove somehow that Marie was unfaithful, my father would toss her out. I didn't like her in the house; she was, in my mind, an interloper and she was flighty and had expensive tastes, sending off to New York and France for fine furnishings, gowns, trinkets. I also felt she'd used my father to escape New Orleans where her reputation was…sullied. But after seeing her and Prejean together, I decided to keep quiet.

"You said to know myself and I think I do. I wanted to hurt my stepmother but not at my father's expense. So, I never followed her again and that day she died, I was working in the yard when she came racing in. And Arnaud Prejean was close behind her. He didn't cause her to fall, cause her to die-it was an accident-her horse fell over a wheelbarrow my brother left out. But my father wouldn't see it that way – I know that. He'd head off to kill Prejean in a jealous rage or for revenge. I know my father and he's a man of deep passions."

"I see. Did Prejean see you in the yard?"

"Yes. We locked eyes."

"Do you think he recognized you when he saw you again?"

"Absolutely."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he went pale and then wouldn't meet my eye again."

"Do you think he had you taken and beaten?"

"Isn't that _your_ job?" I asked. "Aren't you supposed to find that out?"

He smiled again. "Tell me what you think, Adam; I am interested in your opinion."

"No, I don't think he did – okay, maybe he did, but to keep me from telling anyone about seeing him, I'd have to be dead. But even if I had accused him of seeing my stepmother on the Ponderosa, he could deny it, say I was mistaken or just a liar. And it wasn't a crime – Prejean wasn't responsible for killing my stepmother. Besides, from what my father told me about my abduction, someone arrived with one of my cufflinks and a letter with instructions to abnegate Joe's claim to his inheritance at the next meeting. If my father promised to do that, I'd be released. I think it said, 'unharmed'. So much for that. The other option, that is if my father said no, was that I would never be seen again. If he agrees and reneges in the lawyer's, then all of his sons' lives would be in danger no matter how long it took. My father swore he'd abnegate and here I am. And that's about it. Whether Prejean was in Nevada means nothing as to who inherits. Legal is legal. The only person – the only people who would care about Arnaud and my stepmother are my father, Madame Prejean and then me."

"You have good grasp on the situation, Adam. I asked both the Prejeans about the threat, the extortion, but they claimed no knowledge."

"Did you expect them to admit it?"

"It would have made my job tres facile, but no. Monsieur Prejean did seem greatly pleased to hear of your unfortunate 'accident,' for lack of a better word. And when I asked Monsieur D'Arcy if he had any foreknowledge, he laughed. He said that he may have suggested that your father could be convinced to give up his youngest son's inheritance claim if his oldest son's safety was put in jeopardy, but he claims that's all it was – just talk. D'Arcy also claims your brother Joseph's paternity is in question, but I am dubious of that statement, not that it matters. All that matters is that Marie DeVaille-DeMarigny was his mother."

That struck home. Not about Marie being Joseph's mother but about Joseph being Pa's son. What if Marie had taken lovers? Pa was often gone on business during their marriage or on cattle drives. Marie, fancying herself an outstanding horsewoman, was often gone on rides over the Ponderosa or to town. I told myself no, Marie loved my father and he loved her. She wouldn't have seen another man, she loved my father – she did.

"Do the Prejeans have the right to ask who was present at Joseph's birth to verify he came from Marie's body?" I was thinking back on the night Joseph was born. Hoss had come into my room, only being about 6 years old, and was afraid because "Momma" was crying and sounding like she was going to die.

"Don't worry, Hoss. She's having a baby and Pa's with her. He's helping her."

"But, Adam, why's she cryin' like that? I seen the sow have piglets and she just done grunted some while they was bein' born – and last time she had eight."

"Well, people are different." I wished Hop Sing was home, that he hadn't gone to play fantan. He could take care of Hoss and leave me to my own worries. "C'mon, Hoss. Let's go have some leftover cake and a glass of milk. I bet the baby's born even before we finish." And I took Hoss into the kitchen but it ended up being a long night and Little Joe wasn't born until before sunrise.

"By the way," Dectective Charpentier asked, "I forgot to ask your father…just how did Marie's relatives hear of her death? And when?"

"When the letter came from the lawyer informing my father of Marie's inheritance. We wrote back and then a few days later, another letter about Joseph inheriting…." I stopped. I couldn't believe I hadn't put things together earlier – the letters must have crossed one another. "The letter about Joseph arrived too quickly - they must have known of my stepmother's death before we informed them."

"By 'they', I assume you mean the Prejeans and D'Arcy."

"Yes. Now that I know the man who chased her to her death was Arnaud Prejean, it changes my thinking on the whole matter. I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me earlier."

Detective Charpentier rose and took his hat off the bed post. He smiled. "Perhaps it was your brush with death; it tends to make a man think mainly about staying alive." He put on his hat. "Thank you, Adam. You have helped clarify many things—mainly my thoughts on this matter. Yes,'they' were prepared, at least for your father's arrival. You must have been a boon, leverage to be used against a grieving man. Or as a threat. Either way, I hope you are soon well. Now I must go and ask on the waterfront about two 'gentlemen', one named…." He glanced at his notebook, "Rager and one called Suwannee. Both with bruised knuckles, n'est pas?"

We smiled at one another and with a slight bow, Detective Charpentier left. I sighed and felt a twinge in my ribs so I struggled to lower myself back down without causing too much pain, wrapping one arm about my rib cage. All I wanted to do was sleep but this time, it wasn't a drugged sleep; I dreamed again of Marie, of Marie riding her horse, her horse pulling up short and rearing, and Marie laughing down at me but her face wasn't pleasant – and neither were my dreams. And I woke up in a sweat in the middle of the night, unable to find rest again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The day was warming and by early afternoon, it would be hot again. Adam sat in the upholstered wing chair in which his father had been sleeping at night, letting Adam sleep alone in the large bed. Ben had been fearful he might disturb his son during the night and cause him discomfort or even pain by a thrown arm or an errant turn onto his side; Ben noticed Adam didn't sleep well but refused any more laudanum.

Adam had dressed; he was tired of being an invalid and almost a whole week had passed since his beating although the first three days had basically been a blur due to the laudanum. Now he was alert and mulling over what had happened during that time and earlier today. That his father had sworn to abnegate Joe's inheritance, distressed Adam, not that he didn't understand that his father wanted to ensure his safe return. And Adam wasn't quite sure how he would have felt had his father refused to renounce Joe's inheritance, thinking the kidnappers were bluffing and wouldn't follow through. But his father wouldn't do that, wouldn't bet on his son's life. As for the inheritance, Adam knew a bit about the law and vaguely remembered that anything signed, sworn to or confessed under duress wasn't necessarily valid or legal; it could be refuted in court.

 _"_ _But, Pa, hire a lawyer. I think what you said won't count – it was basically extortion!"_

 _"_ _Adam," Ben had said as he dressed to go out. "You don't have to worry – really. I can't tell you everything now, but just trust me. It'll be all right. I have Detective Charpentier's word on it and you yourself said you trusted him. If you do, I do."_

Adam was frustrated but then his father was the adult and had been dealing with legal matters far longer than he had so Adam let it go. What did it matter if Little Joe lost a piece of property that he wouldn't be able to inhabit, let alone do anything with, such as sell, for 13 or more years? But what upset Adam the most that morning was that his father hadn't let him accompany him to the police station.

 _Ben had glanced at his hat in his hands and then back at his son. "I know that since your stepmother's death, I've been remiss…actually, I haven't been worth much. You took up the mantle and ran everything and I don't know what I would've done without you."_

 _"_ _Pa, it's okay. I just, well, the Ponderosa is all of ours. I just did my part in keeping up…"_

 _"_ _You did what a man would do – whatever was necessary. You ran the Ponderosa and took over raising your brothers and without so much as a grumble."_

 _"_ _Trust me, Pa – I grumbled. I grumbled plenty."_

 _Ben smiled. "I want you to rest this morning. I don't think you're fit to head out quite yet.""_

 _"_ _But I am. I can walk just fine, Pa. Besides, we can take a hack if we need to. I want to know what's going on and Detective Charpentier hasn't reported anything back for two days now. I want to know if he's caught the men and discovered who sent them."_

 _"_ _I know you do and I'll tell you everything I find out when I get back. Besides, I want you with me at the lawyer's office later to settle this whole mess. You'll understand more then - just stay here and rest up more or you're not going, boy. And I'm telling you that as your father. Understand?" Ben punctuated his words with a finger aimed at his son._

Adam smiled. His father had trumped him, shown the winning hand. Adam wanted to be at the meeting, wanted to face Arnaud Prejean. That afternoon he would reveal that Prejean had been at the Ponderosa and met with Marie. And then Adam knew he'd have to explain to his father why he hadn't said anything earlier.

So, after Ben left for the police station and after Adam had washed and shaved, he cautiously dressed himself, being careful as he gingerly slid his arms through the shirt sleeves; it hurt to raise his arms too high. So, he sat, dressed, waiting for his father's return. A large bouquet of white flowers sat in a crystal vase on one of the nightstands. The maid had brought them up and said that she was glad he was much better. The sweet fragrance of the blossoms perfumed the still air and made Adam feel lethargic and heavy. He looked out the wide, full-length open double window.

The balcony and the view it offered of life was calling to him. Adam stepped out onto it, his legs still shaky and weak. But he had no patience with his recovery; his body was there to serve him and he resented its betrayal.

Adam clutched the balcony rail as he looked out on the street below. People were going about their business, the streets busy with hired buggies and a few riders, their horses slowly clopping on the cobblestones. Most people in New Orleans walked to the shops or to the markets, carrying string bags filled with fresh vegetables or meats wrapped in oiled paper to prevent blood from seeping through and dripping on the cobblestones where dogs would pick up the scent and follow, harassing the customer. If seafood was preferred, later in the day, there would be open carts where young girls dressed basically in rags, would hawk the shrimp, oysters or crabs for sale. As the evening went on, the price would drop as the seafood became less fresh and by the end of the day, the cart would be wheeled back to the waterside and the remaining goods dumped for the wheeling seagulls to eat.

How oblivious the world was to such small matters as who should inherit a house on the outskirts of town. And what an unimportant thing it really was. Adam considered all the people passing below, how each one nursed their own pain or insecurities or joys. Some were well-off, others struggled each day to find a place to sleep or to fill their bellies. Perhaps some were newly in love, buoyed by the thought of a new chapter in their life, of holding their loved-one close – and then Adam's mind went to Eugenie Prejean.

She had said he would make a "magnificent" man. Adam felt the warmth of youthful desire fill him along with the heaviness of yearning. He couldn't help but wonder how far Eugenie Prejean would have gone to seduce him into revealing what he knew. Would she have kissed him, run her small, white hands lightly over his body? Taken him to her bed? And what would that have been like? He would like to know what it was to hold a woman in his arms and feel her next to him, especially a woman like Eugenie Prejean.

Adam shivered despite the warmth of the day. He sighed. "Stop thinking about her. Just stop," he told himself and went back inside the hotel room. One day he'd know a beautiful woman, one day he would know what fulfilled desire was, what every man eventually knows. But it was yet to come and Adam was impatient. But he realized that no matter when or where he eventually found fulfillment, it wouldn't be between the legs of Eugenie Prejean. But he could still fantasize.

~ 0 ~

"And so," Ben Cartwright told Adam, "The body of one of the two men was snagged in a net by a fisherman about two days ago and only identified when Charpentier checked out unclaimed bodies. He brought in some waterfront workers to see if they could identify him. He said usually they don't bother trying to identify them, just haul the bodies off to a plat of land on the far side of the parish and bury them. As for the other man, a crabber came across him yesterday as he pulled in traps. Despite what the fish and crabs had done to both of them, Charpentier said they were identified as dockworkers called Suwannee and Rager. They'd both been shot in the head and then dumped in the water, so, there's no way to find out who hired them. At least that's what Charpentier said. But I'm sure it was D'Arcy, that conniving bastard. If we were back home, I'd take D'Arcy out and beat a confession from him. And that Prejean as well."

"Pa, if you beat someone to make them confess, maybe they're confessing just to get you to stop beating them. They may not have done anything wrong. I don't think that would be the way to go 'cause, let me tell you, I would've said just about anything to stop being hit by those two."

"But I know D'Arcy's responsible, Adam, and I think you do too. And just look at you. Your face is bruised along with your back and ribcage, you have two black eyes and still can't take a really deep breath. I'd like to give them back what they gave you – even if they didn't use their own fists. Now let's go get this business finished." Ben Cartwright put on his hat and held out Adam's hat to him.

"Pa, before we go, I need to tell you something…" Over a hundred times that morning, Adam had rehearsed how he would tell his father about Arnaud and Marie, how he would phrase it but now that the time had come, it seemed that nothing he could say would mitigate his father's pain. He took his hat from his father and cleared his throat.

"What is it? Tell me about what?" Ben impatiently waited.

"About Arnaud Prejean…and…your wife."

"What?"

"I didn't tell you earlier because I, well, once she was dead, I didn't see a reason; it wouldn't have served any purpose but to cause you more pain. I'm sorry now I didn't tell you earlier but now, before we meet with the others, I'm more or less forced to tell you…" Adam watched his father's face for some clue as to how to proceed and there was nothing. "The man who chased Marie into the yard the day she died was Arnaud Prejean."

"No." Ben shook his head, his face full of disbelief. "No, Adam. You mean I sat there and he was the one…"

"I recognized him as soon as I saw him and I didn't tell you right away because I, well, I didn't want to cause problems. I was afraid if I told you, you'd do something stupid and then I was going to tell you after I came back from seeing Mrs. Prejean, but then, well…I was unable to really say anything and then…I'm sorry, Pa. I should have told you right away."

"I can't believe this." Ben, confounded, walked to the balcony, paused, and then turned back to Adam. "Tell me again. All of it."

"Prejean was in Nevada. He saw Marie a few times but she died running from him. But it was an accident, Pa. An accident. I'm sure he didn't intend her to die."

Ben walked over to his valise that sat on top of the bureau, opened it and pulled out a small derringer. He tucked it into his waistband and pulled his jacket shut and buttoned it. He straightened up, his face like stone.

"Pa, you don't need the gun. And that's why I didn't tell you while I was recovering. I was afraid you'd take out and avenge Marie's death and I wouldn't be able to stop you. But, Pa, I don't think he was chasing her – I think he was following her. Pa, there's a diference."

"What else, Adam? You're not telling me everything. What else is there?"

"When I saw Marie and Prejean together they, well, Marie and he kissed."

"And she ran from him after? He forced himself on her, didn't he?"

"No, Pa, it didn't look that way. At least that one time I saw. He didn't force himself on her, and the kiss was a few days before she died. She'd go riding every afternoon, remember? One day I was out and I came across the two of them. She didn't know I'd seen them, at least I don't think she did. They were arguing, Marie was crying and then, well, she…she allowed herself to be kissed."

"What else happened? Tell me?"

"I don't know anything else. I left and made it a point to stay away. I didn't want to know any more. I'm sorry, Pa."

"You never would have told me about them, would you?"

"No, I never would have. I know she's Joe's mother and I know you loved her, but maybe, just maybe the rumors about her were true. Mrs. Prejean thinks her husband tried to convince Marie to run away with him back to New Orleans, that they could then share the inheritance and…I don't know, Pa. The whole thing seems like such a mess that…"

Ben set his jaw. "Marie told him no, told Prejean no and that's why she ran from him. I'm sure of it. That bastard. He's responsible for Marie's death."

"Pa, step away from it a minute. He isn't responsible. Marie's death was an accident. I think…"

"What? What do you think, Adam?" Ben held his hands in fists by his side. He was angry but as to with whom, he wasn't sure. Had Marie been in love with Arnaud Prejean? Had she met with him many times on the Ponderosa? Had he been a cuckold and had Marie and Arnaud Prejean laughed at her foolish, backwoods husband?

Adam considered his words. "I think Prejean wanted to see you, Pa, was following Marie to the house to tell you about them, maybe to force a…divorce or something. But when he saw her fall and it was obvious she was dead, well, he was afraid and left. That's what I think."

Ben said nothing else, just opened the door and turned to Adam. "Are you coming?"

"Yes." Adam put his hat on and went out the door, his father closing it behind them. They traveled to Bergeron's office in uncomfortable silence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Adam was surprised to see Detective Charpentier in the lawyer's office. Edouard D'Arcy was already there, impatiently pacing. Arnaud Prejean stood in front of the open window, smoking; he flicked the ashes out the open window. Eugenie Prejean, looking to Adam's eyes like a flower in a rose-colored dress trimmed at the neck with ruffles. Her hat had white silk roses on it and ivory ribbons. When Ben and Adam Cartwright entered, Eugenie turned to see them and gasped when she saw Adam. She rose from her chair, her eyes wide and her hand to her mouth.

"Mon Dieu!" She stepped toward Adam. "What happened to you? Your face! Your beautiful face!"

Adam tried to determine if she really didn't know he had been taken and beaten, but her blue eyes were guileless and her shock at his appearance seemed genuine.

"I…" Adam was unsure what to say to a lady, what to reveal, but decided not to soften his words. "I was shanghaied, of sorts, and beaten on my way back to my hotel the night I visited you."

Eugenie dropped her eyes and then glanced at her husband. The only sound was the clock ticking until Arnaud, finally realizing the import of Adam's statement, rose abruptly.

"What? What did you say?" Arnaud looked from Adam to his wife. "You had this…upstart to our home? When? When did you 'entertain' him? Putain!"

Eugenie turned on her husband. "What does it matter to you? You go off to Nevada to visit your whore and I can't invite a young, handsome man to our home? Hypocrite! Adultère!"

Arnaud's hand shot out. He slapped his wife who gave a small cry and stumbled back. Ben Cartwright caught her by the arm, steadying her. Mr. Bergeron gasped in horror; this drama playing out in his office was distasteful; this was no place for such passions.

Adam moved swiftly toward Arnaud, but before he could grab him by the shirtfront, D'Arcy stepped forward, his fist balled to strike but Detective Charpentier swiftly interceded and stopped D'Arcy. Ben grabbed his son's arm.

"I think not, monsieur," Charpentier said to D'Arcy. We will have no brawl break out here." D'Arcy quickly stepped away and began to smooth his vest and jacket, embarrassed by his actions. Only the blood that had risen in his face betrayed his anger. "And you, Monsieur Prejean," Charpentier continued, "if you strike your wife in front of me again, I will arrest you. Do we understand each other?"

"I know my rights, Detective. I know I am allowed to correct my wife as I would a misbehaving child – the law allows it."

"That may be, but I will not allow it in my presence."

"My wife behaves shamefully, tells me she invited this personne vulgaire into our home while I am out; she deserves to be stripped and horsewhipped! But if you have objections to my striking my wife in front of you, I will have to discipline her in the privacy of our home." Arnaud tilted his head slightly toward Charpentier and took his seat. Eugenie timidly sat back down.

Adam remained standing, his chest heaving with unspent anger. He had wanted to show Arnaud what it was like to be slapped across the face. And Eugenie, beautiful Eugenie – what fate would befall her that evening when she and Arnaud were alone? Maybe he could somehow save her.

Ben Cartwright gently pulled Adam over to the chairs that were waiting for them and quickly calmed his son. "Adam," he said almost in a whisper, "don't get involved in their affairs. What goes on between the Prejeans is not your business, not our business. Unless…" Ben eyed his son, noticed Adam's intense fury, and lowered his voice even more. "Did anything…untoward happen between you and Mrs. Prejean?" Ben furrowed his brow. He knew Adam was a handsome boy, had heard comments from the women in town, and why would Eugenie think any differently than they?

 _I swear, Ben, that Adam of yours grows more handsome every day! He was always a nice-looking boy, but now, well, I just can't help but think he might be a good match for my Theresa. She is a pretty girl, even if I say so myself._

 _Ben, do you think Adam would take my Martha to the church social? He's such a handsome, well-brought up boy. Would you suggest it to him? You know, just bring it up to him that she would be a good match._

 _Tut-tut! Those dark curls of his. Adam must take after his blessed mother with his dark, good looks. So very handsome, Ben! He'll make some girl a wonderful husband. And speaking of girls, my Esmeralda…_

"Of course not, Pa!" Adam knew he looked guilty – he certainly felt that way - not for what had happened at the Prejeans' but for what his youthful heart wished had happened. And Adam continued to closely watch Arnaud and D'Arcy but most of all, Eugenie Prejean who lightly placed one hand on her stricken cheek and seemed to not even be in the same room anymore as her vacant gaze took her elsewhere.

"Now," Bergeron said, wiping his brow and cheeks again with his omnipresent handkerchief, "please, gentlemen, we must all keep our heads about us. Please, sit down. Please. Such unpleasantness. Our business here can be quickly concluded, I am sure."

Only D'Arcy continued to stand and lit another cigarette; the exhalation of the smoke seemed to calm him. But he was the only one who seemed relaxed to some degree – other than Detective Charpentier, who also stood observing each person in the room.

"Well, let's get this finished," Arnaud said. "And, detective, you have yet to say why you are here. There is no crime in settling this inheritance. Go on, Monsieur Bergeron." Arnaud flicked his hand at the lawyer.

"Actually," the detective said, "there is no crime in settling the will but a crime had been committed, to wit, the abduction and battery of young Cartwright and the attempt to extort Mr. Benjamin Cartwright."

"And what does that unfortunate incident have to do with me – with any of us here?" Arnaud glanced at Adam and then nonchalantly examined his fingernails.

"I believe that you had something to do with it, did you not, Monsieur Prejean?" Detective Charpentier asked.

"Absolument pas!" Prejean looked offended by the suggestion.

Detective Charpentier shook his head and smiled. "One of my investigators has found a dockyard chief who will swear that he was paid quite well by an elegantly dressed gentleman meeting your description, Monsieur Prejean. He was to arrange the abduction of Adam Cartwright and not releasing him until Ben Cartwright agreed to forfeit Joseph Cartwright's inheritance. He had the discretion of hiring whomever he chose, the only warning being that the men must not remain alive to talk of the matter – you know how whiskey loosens men's tongues.

"But young Monsieur Cartwright was not at the hotel; they were informed he had already left. As to where, the desk clerk did not know, only that his father had been upset to find his son had left. The two hired men, Suwannee and his partner, a man who went by Rager, had been prepared to force their way into the hotel room and overpower the father to take the son. Fortunately for them, that was not necessary as they had a description of the young man from the doorman and information as to what direction he had left. They only had to wait for him to return to the hotel and waylay him before he arrived. I will bring you both to the station in the morning – unless you have something to say now."

Adam waited, considering that this may be why his father had said he would soon understand all. Charpentier had an ace up his sleeve, that is, if he was to be believed.

Detective Charpentier smiled. "You appear nervous, Monsieur Prejean. Would you care to confess your sins? What of you, Monsieur D'Arcy?"

"I have no idea what I should confess. And if I felt the need for a confession, I would speak to my priest," D'Arcy replied.

"And you?" Charpentier asked Prejean.

D'Arcy arched one brow and then tossed his spent cigarette out the window. He made a small sound of disgust.

"Edouard?" Prejean said, "Ce que je dis? Parler le plan avec Marie? "

"Ferme ta gueule! Tu es betes comme tes pieds!*" For the first time, Edoard D'Arcy completely lost his composure.

"What?" Ben said, leaning forward in his chair. "A plan and Marie?" Adam put a hand on his father's arm. Now it was his turn to soothe his father, to prevent him from attacking Arnaud, but Ben continued. "Your meeting with Marie – it was planned – all of it. Did that include chasing her to her death?" Ben continued. He seemed not to notice his son's efforts. "Did it?"

"Pa, please. Please, let the law handle things. Please, Pa." Adam held on to his father, sweat breaking out from his efforts to keep his father from rising and confronting Prejean.

Prejean remained silent, looking to D'Arcy for help.

"So," D'Arcy said, a slight sneer on his elegant mouth as he turned to Adam, "you recognized Arnaud. Why did you stay silent for so long? Did you have blackmail in mind?"

Detective Charpentier considered intervening but decided to wait a bit longer and Bergeron pulled out his handkerchief again and mopped his brow and then wiped the palms of his hands.

"No. I stayed silent because I didn't want to cause pain to…anyone." Adam looked across into the blue eyes of Eugenie Prejean and then into the deep brown eyes of his father. "I saw Arnaud Prejean on the Ponderosa, meeting with Marie. And I saw them embrace and kiss. And I saw him again the day she died."

"So, Arnaud," Eugenie said, a catch in her voice. "You may deny to me as much as you like, but there was a witness to your assignations. You did want Marie to return with you, to be your lover again. And then what? Would you two have found a way to put me out of our home or be rid of me another way? Would I have tumbled down the stairs? Taken too much laudanum perhaps? Thrown myself out a window from grief?" Eugenie began to weep and pulled a lace-trimmed hanky from her reticule. She held it over her face while she cried. "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Aide-moi."

"Oh," Bergeron said, upset over the turn matters had taken. "I had hoped…this is not what I had expected at all. I have all the papers drawn for any and all circumstances as you had asked, Mr. Cartwright, but as far as this…fiasco…I have no purview in resolving these matters. I had not expected accusations of adultery, extortion, blackmail – possibly murder."

"D'accord!" Arnaud said. He stood and pulled down his ivory satin vest. He raised his chin, cleared his throat. "As far as any crime, I have nothing to confess to you, Detective Charpentier, or anyone else." Prejean locked eyes with D'Arcy and then resumed. "This young Cartwright being abducted and beaten, I know nothing about that – nothing. I do not care who you have found in regards to that matter. If he says I hired him, he is a liar, un menteur. I would not be surprised if you have threatened him, Detective, to confess to something he did not do and promise he would go free if he identified me just so you can destroy me out of what motive? Envy? Hatred for the upper class, for those of us who do not labor? I have my honor, sir, and I will defend it!"

"I do not take calumny lightly, Monsieur," Charpentier said. "I too have a sense of honor." Although he was a policeman, Charpentier was also a proud man and would not brook slander.

"Arnaud," D'Arcy said. "You never know when to remain silent and as for your honor, it takes money to have honor and my dear boy, you have none now that you have run through your dear wife's wealth." Arnaud hesitated, not certain if he should respond, but finally sat back down. Eugenie dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief; she was over the worst of her disappointment. "Detective," D'Arcy continued, "it is all very simple – and there is no crime involved except perhaps, crimes of the heart." D'Arcy looked pointedly at Ben and smiled slightly. "I knew my cousin, Marie DeVaille, well – very well. And although she may have loved you as much as anyone of her type could, she also loved many men. No, do not become angry at me. Marie was tres belle, plus magnifique, and all who saw her, fell desperately in love with her. You were not the first and perhaps not the last. As for Marie, with her great beauty and charm, she could pick and choose any man she desired. Why she chose Jean DeMarigny as her husband, who can say? Perhaps she even loved him or perhaps she found him an easy cuckold." D'Arcy shrugged. "Only she knew; women are unfathomable."

"I won't have you insult my deceased wife." Ben stood again, his hands clenched at his side. "You dare imply that there was anything between the two of you…"

"Pa, please! Just some things are said, doesn't make any of it true." Adam pleaded with his father. "And what does it all matter now? She's dead."

"Adam, this is beyond you. You can't understand what it's like to have the woman you loved insulted, maligned…" Ben's voice cracked with emotion. He swallowed deeply and seemed to take control of himself. He looked at his son, at Adam's sad eyes, and sat back down. "Finish, D'Arcy. Finish what you have to say and then don't say anything else about Marie. After, I'll sign for my son Joseph."

D'Arcy slyly smiled and glanced at Prejean. "D'accord. When we learned of Antoinette DeVaille's passing, it occurred to me and Monsieur Prejean, that Marie might return to New Orleans to claim her inheritance. I suggested that Arnaud travel to see her, to bring her back with him and that perhaps, if she chose to stay on her 'farm' with her crude husband, she might relegate her claim so Arnaud and his wife may keep the house. After all, Marie and…" D'Arcy tipped his head to Arnaud, "well, she and Arnaud had been lovers for quite a long time before her marriage…quite a long time. Everyone in New Orleans knew it. I know from experience that love can often be stirred from its dying embers back to flames and according to what Arnaud reported back to me, their love was rekindled and there were many meetings in 'the sylvan glades' of the wilderness. Quite romantic, don't you think?"

"You're a goddamn liar and I'm going to make you eat those words!" Ben threatened and then he looked to Prejean. "You killed my wife, Prejean, and for that, I'll see you dead. Sooner or later, I'll see you dead!"

"You heard him threaten me, Detective! I did not kill Marie! I loved her—desperately! I wanted to tell you of our trysts so that you would turn her away and back into my waiting arms but she ran and I followed. I wanted her so much to return with me. I had even taken part in the cruel charade to fool Jean, her husband, into thinking we were still lovers so that he would leave and I could again have her to myself. But no man ever had Marie to himself."

Ben rose so quickly from his chair, it flipped over backwards. "Coward! Liar!"

Detective Charpentier stood between Ben and Arnaud, his arms outstretched between them to keep them apart. Adam had also risen and held onto his father, thinking of the hidden derringer.

And before anyone could say anything else, Eugenie Prejean stood up. The lawyer struggled to quickly rise from his chair in deference to her.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," she said, almost in a whisper. "I no longer care about what happens here or the house or the treasures it holds. Adieu." Eugenie quickly left the office, her skirts swishing, and Adam looked at the open door, listening as the sound of her light footfalls faded away.

"Today," Charpentier said sternly, "nothing is to be done that is not orderly. Do we understand that, messeurs? Bon. Now, as I have learned from Adam, much of what D'Arcy has said, about the meetings is true. Nevertheless, the reason I am here, other than resolving the beating of Adam Cartwright, is to make certain that young Joseph Cartwright is officially and legally declared an heir to the DeVaille house; extortion will not win out."

*Basically, an more insulting way to say "Shut up" and "You are as dumb as the soles of your feet."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

I watched my father as Prejean and D'Arcy read each and every document, whispering between themselves. Then they excused themselves for a moment and stepped outside into the hall to discuss God knows what. They closed the mahogany door which Eugenie had left open, but it seemed to me that her essence still filled the room, as if a scent unique to her, hung in the air like the perfume of the gardenias blooms in the many gardens of the city.

I'm not a superstitious person – superstitious beliefs are for children and I'm not sure if I even believe in a god above who watches over us. After all, no one was watching over Marie the day she died. And no divine power deflected the arrow that killed Inger, Hoss' mother. And no heavenly father breathed life into my mother who died at my birth. But still, Eugenie's lingering presence – or lack of, I guess – was disquieting and my mind went back to her and her injured beauty. Was she calling out to me in some way, asking for me to remember her by leaving a specter of sorts behind? Seeing Eugenie cry felt as if bits of my heart were being ripped away. But there was nothing I could do. I took a deep breath and sighed, exhausted. My back and ribs began to ache more and I wished I could lie down. My head began to throb again.

It was dusk and would soon be dark; the air was cooling. The sounds of the people in the street below became sharper, crisper, and their voices carried into the office. I could hear music, a piano, playing some distance away. Funny how things change about that time of day. On the Ponderosa, a calmness always fell on my soul when day transitioned into night. Even the animals knew a peace. I wondered if Eugenie felt a sense of calm, if she was thinking of the child growing inside her and finding some comfort and joy in that. And then I wondered how she felt carrying the child of a man who loved another. Even though she had told me herself that Arnaud never loved her, more than likely she had still harbored the hope she was wrong. Now she knew she wasn't.

And then there was my father. He sat in silence, lost in thoughts of his own. My heart truly broke for him. How difficult it must have been to face truths about Marie; he must wish he'd never heard them. But Marie couldn't have pretended for six years that she loved my father if she hadn't. And there are many types of love. As callow and inexperienced as I was, I even knew that.

Perhaps Marie loved my father for rescuing her. There would be nothing wrong with her repaying my father for his goodness and his generous love by being a good wife and giving him a son, a beautiful son to dote on. My father had been too busy, too harried carving out an existence for the two of us to dote on me as a child and as for Hoss, it was difficult to dote on him. To love him, yes, to smile at his beaming face and chuckle at his good humor, yes, but to pull him on your lap and stroke his wispy fair hair? Hoss would never sit still for that type of thing as he was a child of action, always moving, always wanting to be outside.

But Little Joe? He was created for adoration, seemed to accept it as his due, and adore him, my father did. After all, Joseph is the child of my father's later years, a chance for him to do things right, a chance to be a better father. And for the happiness Joe brought him, I was indebted to Marie.

"Detective Charpentier," I asked, "do you really have a dockyard chief who can identify Prejean?"

"Hélas, no. That was just a, how do you say…a ruse. But because it is not true now does not mean it will be untrue in the future, n'est pas?" He smiled at me and I couldn't help but smile back. "Best to let Prejean and D'Arcy worry overnight; a man's conscience is the detective's best weapon."

The clock ticked away the seconds and then Prejean came back into the office - alone.

"Well, Monsieur Prejean," Bergeron said. "Which alternative is it to be? I have all the forms ready."

Prejean cleared his voice and stood straight with a haughty expression. "I will pay the cost of living in the house for one month. That will give Madame Prejean and myself time to secure another residence."

"Bien," Bergeron said. "Then I declare Joseph Cartwright as the heir to the DeVaille home as well as its contents. When will you have the money for Mr. Cartwright? I have worked with an accountant and we have calculated the amount – considering the square footage as well as the location – at $75.00 a month. Most equitable."

"Seventy-five! That is…" Prejean caught himself. I could tell how he was struggling to remain in control of his emotions and I surprised myself for feeling sorry for him. I don't know why I should; he was despicable. And yet…

"That will be fine. I will deliver the bank draft to you, Monsieur Bergeron? Shall we say by two in the afternoon?"

"Will that be agreeable to you, Mr. Cartwright?" The lawyer turned to my father who seemed to suddenly wake from a reverie.

My father said it would be agreeable; that the stage wasn't leaving until 4:00. Then the appropriate papers were signed but there was no handshake between my father and Prejean, and as he was leaving, Detective Charpentier called to him.

"Do not forget, Monsieur, we have an appointment in the morning. I will send some officers to escort you to the station about ten – not too early for you, I hope."

Prejean only gave a slight nod in recognition and left.

"Well, we shall see what occurs tomorrow," Charpentier said. "And I hope, young Adam, to find some justice for you."

"Actually, it doesn't matter much to me anymore. We have justice for my brother and in that way, justice for my stepmother. Don't you agree, Pa?"

"I suppose." My father looked tired, his cheeks hollow. "Thank you, Mr. Bergeron, for all the paperwork and such. And thank you for accepting the rent payment. If you wouldn't mind setting up a proxy account to receive the money, we can stay two more days to sign any of the forms. I think Adam and I need at least two more days before we leave." My father and Bergeron shook hands.

Then he shook hands with Detective Charpentier who said he would keep us apprised of any new developments.

The three of us stepped outside and Detective Charpentier went in one direction and we, the other, and as we started walking, I realized that my body had reached its limit; my ribs ached and my lower back felt as if I'd been punched all over again.

"Pa, can we hire a hack? I don't think I can…." My legs became weak and I managed to get to the ground and sit before my legs buckled. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling through pursed lips and then sucking in my breath again.

"Adam. Hold on, boy. Let me flag one down."

~ 0 ~

The doctor examined me, pressing here and there and asking if it hurt. "Yes, it hurts there…yes, Jesus Christ, yes! And there too!" I was in a cold sweat, lying on the bed still in my trousers. My father and the doctor both helped me to remove my shirt – I'd stopped my father from cutting it off. I know it was just a starched, white shirt, but it was a good store-bought shirt and we couldn't well afford to just slit it up the back to make removing it easier.

Doctor Stanton, that same doctor who'd seen me when I'd been first beaten, emphasized bed rest and seemed to be chastising my father after he'd prepared me a dose. I lay back on the pillow and listened, enjoying the sweet release that a few grains of laudanum gave me. It's easy to understand why some people came to rely on it; it is seductive. My father's and the doctor's voices began to sound distant, like flies buzzing overhead.

"He's done too much today and shouldn't have been out for such a long time. It's a step back. Make sure he stays in bed for at least two more days. And I understand you want to get back to your home, but don't even think of leaving for another four days. By then, Adam should be able to sit without too much discomfort. But if there's blood in his urine again, call me. And make sure you check; these young people don't realize how serious kidney damage can be – can poison the whole system."

The next morning, the maid brought up breakfast tray and my father accepted it at the door. He looked awkward carrying it, balancing the clattering dishes, and placed it on the bureau. Then he helped me sit up, propping pillows behind me.

"How's that, Adam? Comfortable?"

"Not too bad."

My father looked ashen. He obviously hadn't slept from the dark circles under his eyes. He placed the tray on my lap and lifted the covers on the dishes. There was a plate of scrambled eggs and 4 slices of bacon on one plate. Biscuits – buttermilk biscuits, my father pointed out – were on a smaller plate. There was a small bowl of muscadine grape jelly and another that held butter. A small pot of coffee, and a small cream pitcher also sat on the tray along with an upside-down coffee cup on its saucer along with a small, square dish that held sugar loaves. I placed one on my tongue, letting it melt. It was such a small pleasure but after being so miserable for so long, the intense sweetness felt decadent. Now I understood why Hoss would rob the sugar bowl at home.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" my father said. "That grape jelly is something else – not at all like the grapes we have back home, but I like the taste. Apparently, the wild ones are green." He forced a smile. "Now eat before those eggs get cold. That's the only problem with scrambled eggs; they get cold so quickly."

I swallowed the sugar loaf quickly as my father was heading toward the door.

"Pa, aren't you going to eat?"

"I thought I'd go eat in the restaurant, give you time to be alone. I know that you enjoy solitude. I'll get a paper too and read it so if I'm gone awhile, don't worry. Oh, and don't let that coffee get cold." He motioned in my direction. "They make good coffee here too. It's the chicory, at least that's what the waitress told me when I asked her. Now be sure and eat."

Something was wrong. My father never went on like that about nothing. Then I realized that he was embarrassed. He had been humiliated in front of me and didn't want to be alone with me, at least not yet.

"Pa, would you stay a while. Please. There are some things I need to say about…"

"Adam…" My father dropped his head. Then he looked up with a sigh. "I don't want to talk about Marie and…"

"You don't have to talk – just listen to what I have to say."

"All right, Adam, I'll listen," he said, resigned.

"You always told me to make up my own mind about people and not to listen to gossip or rumor. You said that envious people often made up lies or slanted things to put others in a bad light. Well, I've more or less followed that advice and often found it true. You also always told Hoss and me that there are three sides to every story – two of the sides are those involved in the conflict - and then there's the truth. We can't help but see things from our own eyes and our view comes from our past experiences but that's not necessarily how things are."

"Did I say all that?" my father asked, a small smile playing about his lips.

"You sure did."

"I sound really wise, don't I?"

"Yeah, you do, and I think you are. Pa, what Prejean and D'Arcy said about Joe's mother, maybe – and I say maybe – it was true once. I've been thinking about what I saw and, well, if she and Prejean were once in love, then maybe she kissed him to see if she still felt the same way, but, Pa, the day she died, she wanted to get away from Prejean…and she ran home as quickly as she could, as fast as her horse could run. The Ponderosa was her home and you and me, Hoss and Joe were her family. That's where she wanted to be, at home, not here in New Orleans. She wanted to be with us.

"I don't believe what either D'Arcy or Prejean said about her. And even if it had been true, once she married you, anything else was the past and it doesn't matter, does it?"

"No, Adam, I guess it doesn't." My father still stood with his hand on the doorknob.

"And I am sorry, Pa, that I wasn't…kinder to Joe's mother. She tried to be nice to me but I was such a jackass. I wish I could apologize to her but I can't. I don't think I can ever forgive myself."

"Forgive yourself, Adam. I know Marie would have. She always thought so much of you, how smart you are, how handsome you are and responsible. Just forgive yourself, Adam. You were there when she needed you most, at the end." I could see my father's emotions rise to the surface as he spoke of Marie, and because he was so close to breaking down, I felt my throat close with emotion as well.

I was too old to cry but after my father left and I sat staring, I felt my lips quiver and then I began to cry, the sounds of grief escaping from me. It had taken long enough, a few months, but I finally cried over Marie's death. And it took a long while before I could stop.

~ 0 ~

My father and I were playing a game of gin with a pack of cards provided by the hotel. I sat up in bed, propped up comfortably with the extra pillows my father had requested. I sat partially crossed-legged under the bedding, and he sat on the side of the bed, one leg drawn up and crooked at the knee so that he could face me and still be comfortable.

"So, tell me, Pa, what's the name of the game?" I grinned at him.

"Gin."

"Took the word right outta my mouth!" I put my cards out, a run of clubs. "Gin, it is!"

"I swear, you must be cheating. How else could you win three games in a row? You have spare cards under the sheet?"

"I think that's loser talk, Pa. How about another game. Who knows, you may get lucky since you don't have any skill." I shuffled the cards, still smiling even though my lower back was beginning to ache.

"Just keep that talk up, boy. Just keep talking. It'll only make it sweeter when I beat you. Now deal."

I smirked and began to deal the cards when there was a knock on the door.

"Wonder who…," My father said, looking puzzled. He and I looked at the clock in the room. "Well, it's not the doctor—said he'd be back this evening. Who could…"

"Why don't you open the door and find out," I said. And then I remembered Rager and Suwannee. "But take the gun.

But the gun wasn't necessary. A voice came through the closed door, "Mr. Cartwright, c'est moi, Detective Charpentier. May I come in?"

My father let him in and they shook hands and then the detective came to the foot of the bed.

"Why, Adam, how nice to see you feeling well."

"Thank you, I apologize for sitting here bare-chested like some heathen."

He laughed. "Not at all. An injured man deserves to be free of the uncomfortable confinement of clothes – especially in this heat." Then his face became serious and he frowned. "But I have unpleasant news."

My father and I exchanged glances. My spirit dropped; I was certain the news would be that Prejean wasn't going to be charged – with anything – that there wasn't adequate proof.

My father pushed his hands in his pockets, his face grim. "What is it?"

"Arnaud Prejean is dead."

"What?" I asked. "Prejean dead? How?"

"Surely you don't suspect Adam or me of…" My father was quick to become defensive.

"Oh, no, no. We know who killed him – she confessed."

"Eugenie," I whispered. I knew who had killed him, beautiful Eugenie.

"Yes, Adam. Cherchez la femme. Mrs. Prejean is the perpetrator. When my officers arrived to escort Prejean to the constabulary, he was dead on the floor of the main room. Eugenie Prejean readily gave herself up and confessed to having hit him with a fireplace poker – many times. Many, many times. The back of his skull was basically caved in - shattered.

"According to her confession, when her husband arrived home after the meeting, he took out his anger, humiliation and frustration on her. Her face and body witnessed it.

"She then, after hearing noises and creeping down the stairs, saw her husband cutting paintings from their frames and rolling them up to place in an portmanteau. It seems the paintings are extremely valuable, some of them from the 16th century.

"According to Mrs. Prejean, her husband was going to take the paintings and leave – without her. Apparently, she could take no more, picked up a fireplace poker and…well, Arnaud Prejean is dead. Alas, she has been charged with murder and since she confessed, well, there's not a question of her guilt."

"That's awful," my father said. "A man dead, a woman who's carrying a child charged with murder…people's lives ruined."

"Will she hang?" I knew what the law of the land was – everywhere, not just in Nevada. If a person muders someone, they hang. But Eugenie – they wouldn't hang her! The couldn't! After all, they would be hanging her child as well.

Charpentier paused, stood a little taller and said, "If the law is applied impartially, then yes, she will hang, but not until after the child is born."

"And the child?" my father asked.

Detective Charpentier shrugged his shoulders. "Je ne sais pas."

"Pa, we should help her somehow…hire a lawyer, something."

"If I may interrupt," Charpentier said, "I think it would be best if you left it to the police, to me, in particular. You see, you are in New Orleans, not a town out west. An abused widow ripe with child is a sympathetic creature and we here in this beautiful city, have a soft spot for loveliness. And Eugenie Prejean is plus magnifique, very beautiful. Her family has been contacted; I sent the wire myself. They are wealthy and I am sure she will be well-represented.

"My suggestion is that you see Bergeron one last time and then, that you leave for your…what was it called? Ah, yes, the Ponderosa."

"I'd like to see Madame Prejean before we leave. Where is she being held?"

"Adam, that would not be wise," Charpentier said. "Madame Prejean must be seen as pure if she is to have any defense that is to be accepted. Her only hope is if Arnaud can be portrayed as cruel, abusive and adulterous. If you visit her, well, you are a handsome young man, old enough to be viewed as a possible lover. It is not unusual for women in society to take younger men as paramours." He shrugged. "It would not look good for her to have such a visitor, especially since her husband accused her in front of all of us of having concocted an assignation with you."

"It wasn't an assignation!" I sat forward to make my point and my ribs caught. I gritted my teeth, grabbed my side, and muttered a curse, falling back on the pillows.

My father tut-tutted and told me to settle down; none of it was our business any more, he said. Things were out of our hands.

"Thank you for understanding, Mr. Cartwright. Adam, I hope you come to see things my way eventually. I only thought to let you both know. Goodbye or as we say, au revoir. It was a pleasure to meet you both." He tipped his hat and left us. And I felt nothing but desolation.


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue**

Two days later, my father and I boarded the stage for home. The doctor had told me to rest another two days but I was ready to leave, felt decent enough to travel, and my father was equally impatient to go. It seemed neither of us could wait to put enough distance between us and New Orleans.

The ride to Memphis was pleasant enough with good company on the way and a woman who had packed a big basket with all sorts of home-made goods that she was delighted to share -cookies and maple candies and small creme cakes. I think she had her eye on my father and seemed genuinely disappointed when we switched to another stage that took us to Illinois.

We stayed in Kankakee for a day and a half in a small hotel and my father sent a wire home at the station. "Miss my boys," he had added. I could picture Hop Sing reading the telegram aloud to Hoss and Joe and how they would smile when that line was read to them.

From there, we headed to Colorado and the ride was long and hot and dusty and the old man across from me with a short scraggly beard, smelled like the inside of an outhouse; I spent most of the trip with my nose out the window. We changed stage lines again in Utah and that one delivered us to Carson City. From there, we hired a buggy and horse to take us home. And I wanted to be home; I can't say I was displeased to have to wait longer to leave for college – not at all.

Before we'd left New Orleans, Mr. Bergeron set up a trust for Little Joe at the Banque Nationale de la Nouvelle-Orléans. Every six months, Pa would receive an update on its status. The DeVaille house was to be leased but not before the paintings and other beautiful "objets d'art," as they were called, were sold at auction. Bergeron told me father that it would be best if he returned to supervise, but my father declined. He told Bergeron to take whatever he thought was fair from the gross sale of the items - perhaps 15% - if he would manage the auction and deposit the proceeds. Bergeron accepted. One day Joe would be a wealthy man independent of the Ponderosa. Marie would have been pleased.

And my father seemed to have found peace with Marie's death, peace he hadn't found before our journey to Louisiana. Maybe it was due to the passing of time, maybe it was due to having all his emotions regarding her, exhausted, but he seemed happier after we finally arrived home. He threw himself into the affairs of the Ponderosa and Hoss and Joe, well, my father took turns taking them with him out on business whenever he could. I think it was his way of getting them familiar with how to deal with others in business and also because he was happy to be back with them.

I just know that Hoss felt special when it was his turn to go along – he'd beam ear to ear - and my father told me that Hoss had a way among men, a way of being just one of the boys but still remaining a Cartwright. Hoss, my father said, would grow to be one of those men that everyone liked and respected.

I said that maybe it was because Hoss was as big as any man now and that's why he fit in, but I knew what my father meant. Hoss was growing into his name which meant a big friendly, good-hearted man.

As for Little Joe, he was just happy to go anywhere with Pa. He had a new Indian pony and rode it everywhere. Our father hovered over him at first and I knew what he was thinking – he was thinking of Marie and how she died falling from her horse. But he eased-up a bit as time passed and it became common to see my father riding his buckskin with Joe riding his little paint pony alongside, even though Joe still had trouble keeping his feet in the stirrups; his legs were still too short and Hoss had taken to calling him "Shortshanks."

I left for school that fall when a new term started and it was hard to say goodbye. Hop Sing had packed me a basket of food and my father gave me cash money and told me to keep it in my boot. Hop Sing even sewed a hundred dollars into the lining of my trail coat.

"Hide from thieves," he said as he showed me the stiches. I almost said it wasn't necessary but thought better and thanked him. It seemed I was more perceptive of the small actions that occur every day that indicate people love you.

I never saw Eugenie Prejean again before we left New Orleans. I wonder if she hanged or if she was set free and was living a pleasant life with her parents and raising her child. I want to think so. And I consider that maybe one day, after I complete my studies, I'll detour to New Orleans on my route home. There in New Orleans, I'll search for Eugenie. Mr. Bergeron might know where she is or at least how she is. Nevertheless, Detective Charpentier most likely would know what became of her and maybe tell me where I can find her. But would she be glad to see me or would I only be a terrible reminder of what had transpired?

Marie never disturbed my sleep again. No, not her but many nights I still wake early in the morning from an awful dream, my chest heaving, my body drenched with sweat. And while the world still sleeps, while most people lie serenely in their beds, I sit in my small room here at school and watch the sun rise from the one window I have. I sip the coffee I made from two-day old grounds and try to shake the disturbing images of a woman in peril. You see, it's Eugenie Prejean who wakes me at that ungodly hour. And she haunts me – she haunts me still.

~ Finis ~


End file.
